Up and down ran the Cockroaches all,
Red coats and black coats, great and small;
"Ho, Tom! our hearts are set on a ball,
And your music we desire!"
Tom sat in his hole, his horns hung out,
He play'd away on his fiddle;
The Cockroaches danced in a rabble rout,
Scrambling and scurrying all about,
Tho' they had their own steps and figures no doubt,
Hands across, and down the middle.