IV.
Old England is eaten by knaves, Yet her heart is all right at the core,May she ne'er be the mother of slaves, Nor a foreign foe land on her shore.
I love my own country and race, Nor lightly I fled from them both,Yet who would remain in a place Where there's too many spoons for the broth.
The squire's preserving his game. He says that God gave it to him,And he'll banish the poor without shame, For touching a feather or limb.
The Justice he feels very big, And boasts what the law can secure,But has two different laws in his wig, Which he keeps for the rich and the poor.
The Bishop he preaches and prays, And talks of a heavenly birth,But somehow, for all that he says, He grabs a good share of the earth.
Old England is eaten by knaves, Yet her heart is all right at the core,May she ne'er be the mother of slaves, Nor a foreign foe land on her shore.
