I sing thy praise, Iacchus,
    Who with thy thyrse dost thwack us:
    And yet thou so dost back us
    With boldness, that we fear
    No Brutus ent'ring here,
    Nor Cato the severe.
    What though the lictors threat us,
    We know they dare not beat us,
    So long as thou dost heat us.
    When we thy orgies sing,
    Each cobbler is a king,
    Nor dreads he any thing:
    And though he do not rave,
    Yet he'll the courage have
    To call my Lord Mayor knave;
    Besides, too, in a brave,
    Although he has no riches,
    But walks with dangling breeches
    And skirts that want their stitches,
    And shows his naked flitches,
    Yet he'll be thought or seen
    So good as George-a-Green;
    And calls his blouze, his queen;
    And speaks in language keen.
    O Bacchus! let us be
    From cares and troubles free;
    And thou shalt hear how we
    Will chant new hymns to thee.

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