Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of barber's race;
Give ample room, and verge enough,
Their lengthened lanthorn jaws to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When all their shops shall echo with affright;
Loud screams shall through St. James's turrets ring,
To see, like Eton boy, the king!
Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws,
That crape the foretops of our aching heads;
No longer England owns thy fribblish laws,
No more her folly Gallia's vermin feeds.
They wait at Dover for the first fair wind,
Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast-beef behind.