The Metamorphosis, or the Royal Honours of Scotland

Fareweill our ancient kingdom!
Fareweill our ancient kingdom,
That sold thyself
For English pelf,
Was ever such a thing done?

But is it not great pity
But is it not great pity
To think our crown
Is melted down
And sent to London city?

And now its given the forger
And now its given the forger
To make a pann
For brandy Nan
The widow of Prince George, sir.

But what will she make there on't?
But what will she make there on't?
'Twill be of use
To catch the juice
Of the hole that has most hair on't.

And when she thinks it fitt, Sir
And when she thinks it fitt, Sir
She'll squate her a--e
To save the grass
On it, and in it sh-t, Sir.

Was ever plott like this plott
Was ever plott like this plott
To spoil the thing
Should crown the King
To make for her a pishpott?

And where's the royall scepter?
And where's the royall scepter?
'Tis made a machine
To f--g the Queen,
Lest f-----g much had clapt her.

O what pollution more is?
O what pollution more is?
Than the thing that was,
To touch our laws,
Should now touch her clitoris!

Nor doe they think they ill doe,
Nor doe they think they ill doe,
That the royall wand
That ruled our land,
Is now become a dildoe.

And where's the sword of justice?
And where's the sword of justice?
Tis broken down
To pinn the gown,
That covers where her lust is.

And sometimes hes the honour,
And sometimes hes the honour,
When summer's hat
To cool her twatt,
And put the sheare upon her.

And is that not ane odd thing?
And is that not ane odd thing?
That the royall blade
Is dwindeled,
To a razour and a bodkin.

So fareweill ancient kingdome,
So fareweill ancient kingdome,
That sold thyselfe
For English pelfe;
Was ever such a thing done?

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin