From the famous peak of derby And the devil’s arse that’s hard by Where we yearly make our musters There the gypsies throng in clusters Be not frightened by our fashion Though we seem a tattered nation We account our rags our riches So our tricks exceed our stitches Give us bacon, rinds of walnuts, Shells of cockles, and of small nuts. Ribonds, bells, and saffron linnin And all the world is ours to win in
