Bah! to your boasts of the blackguards of Lancashire;

Tush! to your talk of the rascals of Staffs;

Come, let me openly mention as rank a shire

(Yorks) as you'll find for the riffest of ruffs;

Choose all the pick of your Cheese-shire or Pork-shire men,

Men who have sunk in the deepest of mud;

Deuce of a one can come near to us Yorkshiremen

Born with Beelzebub's blue in our blood.

"Nuts" who have long left the strait way or narrow gate

Swarm on each side of the Swale or the Ouse;

Huddersfield vies in its villains with Harrogate;

Satan in Sheffield would shake in his shoes;

Hull?—though you might not be driven to drat it, you'd

Certainly substitute "e" for its "u,"

And, from a purely unprejudiced attitude,

We should pronounce it the worse of the two.

Yorks has a side, you see, surely more sinister

Far than the shires that would snatch at her fame;

So, when you curse at our present Prime Minister,

Calling him every conceivable name,

We shall accept 'em with sangfroid and phlegm, as he

Gives you this practical proof of his powers,

Setting his seal to our sinful supremacy,

Seeing he comes from this county of ours.