Whilst his cradle will stand ’neath a canopy
That is deck’d with a golden crown.
O, we trust when his Queenly Mother sees
Her Princely boy at rest,
She will think of the helpless pauper babe
That lies at a milkless breast!
And then we will rattle our little bell.
And shout and laugh, and sing as well—
Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!
Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!