The Knights Errant

Knights errant of old, By their titles we're told, Thought more of their stomachs than fame; Each knight from some treat, Some plant or some meat, Uncourteously borrow'd his name.

De'il burn you a', quoth St. Andrew, Let ither knights gang whistle; The bonny Scotchman kens his foes, And scratches with his thistle.

Now, cotsplood, quoth St. David, Oh, pless the leek! Inteed the Welch knight peats the Scot; Oh, pless the leek! Milk, cheese, and curds, and nauny goats, With other treats we taffies view, And tear and swear, and fight look you, Oh, pless the leek!

St. Dennis di, mes chere amis En verite behold a me; We French knights dance away, d'ye see, And fight for frogs and fricasee.

St. Patrick, hot as lightning with whisky and old bumbo, Cry'd out, "Don't bother thus, with noise and hurlo thrumbo; Here's one with his shilaly will suddenly all beat ye, Unless your frogs and thistles yield to Pat and his potaty. Oh, the plump potaty, The pretty plump potaty.

When errant knights, in proud array, Assembled first on Clermont's plain, This was the burthen of their lay, And ev'ry champion join'd the strain: St. George for ever, for ever live the chief, St. George, Old England, and roast beef. Oh the roast beef of Old England, And oh the Old English roast beef!