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How finely you swagger, to mimic Lochaber,
 * When dress’d in your ribbons of orange and blue.

The Pope’s superstition, and Spain’s Inquisition,
 * Are deeds that will ever make thousands bewail,

Your Waterloo bonnet, with top-knot upon it,
 * Proclaims to the nation this sorrowful tale.

We’ve Waterloo feeding, and Waterloo cleading,
 * That’s greatly in fashion wi’ belles and with beaux,

We’ve poets with sonnets & blockheads with bonnets,
 * To wear in remembrance of Waterloo brose.

We’ve Waterloo taxes, so firm on their axis,
 * In their annual circuit are just as the sun.

And some folk I ken, that’s forced into the fashion,
 * Are gaun about wetshod wi’ Waterloo shoon.

Once our commerce and trade from the nation has fled,
 * And left pauperism the country to feed,

Our descendants unborn, at our conduct will scorn,
 * Posterity never can sanction the deed.

Britannia no longer can yield to be trode on,
 * These Waterloo fashions she never can bide,

But give her the food that her forefathers fed on,
 * A clumsy beefsteak was their glory and pride.

Indeed I am sorry our national glory
 * Such laurels should bind round the brow of the brave,