To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery
If I jumble up together music, poetry, and history,
To sing of the vices of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir,
Detested be the memory of wicked Queen Bess, sir,
Whose memory posterity with blushes shall confess, sir.

In saying she would die a maid, she, England! did amuse ye.
But what she did, and what she died-I hope you will excuse me:
A gallant Earl a miracle of passion for her fed, sir;
She kiss'd him, and she clos'd the scene by striking off his head, sir!
Detested be, &c.

Oh! rude ungrateful Scotland! had thy desolated Queen, sir,
No blue eyes ever known, nor had she beauteous been, sir,
The envy of our old rival hag she might have baffled, sir,
Nor with her guiltless blood have crimson'd o'er the scaffold, sir.
Detested be, &c.

She dress'd just like a porcupine, and din'd just like a pig, sir,
And an over-running butt of sack she swallow'd at a swig, sir!
Her brawny maids of honour ate and drank confounded hard, sir,
And droves of oxen daily bled within her palace-yard, sir!
Detested be, &c.

In ruling she was wonderous tyrannical and surly;
If a patriot only touch'd on the Queen or Master Burleigh,
She'd send a file of soldiers in less than half an hour, sir,
Just to bid him make his speeches to the prisons of the Tow'r, sir!
Detested be, &c.