An! where are now our bonny white cockades?
Our 'ticket dinners,' and our grand parades?
Our banners gaily waving in the air,
Free as the wind and as the lilies fair;
And bearing high their flower bedecked groves?
Our lovely damsels, winning many loves?
Alas! the fairy scene delights no more,
Swept like a cloud the rushing storm before.
No more the clergy in their sable gowns
Lead on the well dress'd gawkies of our town;
Our gawkies now the reverends will not follow,
Ashamed to find their skulls were once so hollow.

Methinks I see that ne'er forgotten day,
When Ebors in the foolery led the way;
When Jammy's hen a dreadful death had died,
Had not good store of mutton been supplied
With which the hungry maws were satisfied.
'Old Blücher,' like a second Hudibras,
Napoleon chained on his stubborn ass,
Whilst valiant Cossacks club'd him on the pate,
Knowing the figure was inanimate.
Ah! one short glance from his keen eagle eye
Had made a host so despicable fly,
And from the warrior's face one darkening frown
Had scatter'd all the Cossacks of our town;
But weavers now no more such game will follow,
Their pockets empty and their bellies hollow.

No more the Orangemen in grand array
Expose to gaping crowds their trumpery;
No more their banners, serpents, rods, and staves,
Carried by fools, or, what is worse, by knaves,
Are trimm'd anew to glut the vulgar gaze,
And fill our wide mouth'd starers with amaze;
Masons and Orangemen parade no more,
Napoleon reigns and all our joys are o'er.

Where now is Mister G——, 'the man of God,'
Who with his 'wee' cockade so meekly rode,
Displaying every puritanic grace,
Starch Methodism painted in his face?
Lucky the thought, if Mister George would pray,
The Lord, perhaps, might take 'Old Nap' away;
Could holy George, like Jacob, but prevail,
To turn and join his class I would not fail;
But ah! his 'wee' cockade he dons no more,
Napoleon reigns, and George's ride is o'er.

Farewell, ye drunken scenes of noisy joy,
The broken shin, and eke the blacken'd eye;
Farewell, the roaring of the mimic thunder,
The terror of our clodpoles, and the wonder;
Farewell, ye lumps of pudding and roast beef,
To gnawing hunger giving kind relief;
Farewell, ye bursting butts of foaming ale,
Inspiring many a merry song and tale.
No more our wives are blithe with rum and tea,
In bib and tucker donn'd for holiday;
No more the hissing rocket mounts the sky,
O'er gaping mouth and wonder-seeing eye;
And when I future scan, the cheerless scene
Doth almost make me wish I had not been.
Alas! the golden days will come no more,
Napoleon reigns, and feasting joys are o'er;
Ah! crows the cock? I'll toddle into bed,
And cure with sleep my weary heart and head.