Strange time are come when stones must bleed,
There’s juice in ashes of the great,
The swinish multitude can read,
Some cry ‘take cry’, when broke your pate,
Some kill themselves that they may live,
Some kin flints and peel the straws,
Handcuff that louse on the bishop’s sleeve,
Muzzle that bug and stop his jaws.
Ri, fol de riddle, dell,
All’s right if ending well,
If I the truth to you must tell,
I never would my country sell.

Law’s like a spider’s web you see,
Catching poor weak little flies,
The rich break through, for strong they be,
The friendless poor man surely dies;
Boroughmongers first was limbs of law,
By fraud got lands from friendless poor,
In poor man’s clause they find a flaw,
Except he’ll fight for freedom more.
Ri, fol de riddle, &c.

Some say they’ll teach brute bears to read,
And learn them to respect their foes,
If dukes no gratitude should need,
Then hang themselves and drown their clothes;
Just see that dog that struck his father,
The murdering thief, the great unpaid,
He wants a crown, but hang him, rather,
If we’d him here he’d be misled.
Ri, fol de riddle, &c.

Whatever some do give away,
Can ne’er be nought to nobody,
Some cheat the poor, and then will pray,
And cry, O Lord, what a devil I be;
Devils do what they like with their own,
The poor man’s friend will turn his coat,
Kings will sell themselves and crown,
Till Nosey Gammon cut their throat.
Ri, fol de riddle, &c.

How long must wolves in Parliament
Sit, watch-dogs, stealing people’s rights,
Church pretty shepherds must repent,
That know no flocks by any lights;
Will British Lions face the bull dogs,
And roar against the cannon ball,
Or will they still be rated wild hogs?
No! nobly live, or nobly fall.
Ri, fol de riddle, &c.

Some thousands are extremely rich,
And millions are most wretched poor,
My blood now boils, oh what a pitch,
Good tradesmen beg from door to door;
You know Reform is all a puff,
Then str—e, and set our country free,
And d— the dog that cries enough,
Our friends will str—e along with we.
Ri, fol de riddle, &c.