  O, it’s down with the German sausage, Away with the German yeast, And never shall Turkey rhubarb Come after an English feast. O, it’s death to the onion Spanish, And death to the Brussels sprout, And we’ll scatter the Persian sherbet In the general foreign rout. Let plaster of Paris vanish, And down with the old Dutch clock; No ship of old England’s commerce Shall strike on French almond rock A fig for the choice Havanna, And down with the black Japan, And never a Turkish towel Shall dry a true Englishman. No more shall the Roman candle At the Palace of Crystal rise, And the famed Italian iron Shall the laundry-maid despise. No more shall the Russian leather Envelop an English book; No more shall a French bean simmer ’Neath the eyes of an English cook. ’Tis the cry of the bankrupt trader That floats upon every breeze; French rolls they have “bust” the baker, And the cheesemonger hates Dutch cheese. O, buy but the goods of Britain, By the hands of the natives made, And if they should charge you double, All the better for English trade. |
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