England and Louis Napoleon

There was a poor old Woman once, a daughter of our
nation,
Before the Devil's portrait stood in ignorant adoration.
" You're bowing down to Satan, Ma'am," said some
Spectator civil:
" Ah, Sir, it's best to be polite, for we may go to the
Devil."

Bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

So England hails the Saviour of Society, and will
tarry at
His feet, nor see her Christ is he who sold him, curst
Tscariot.
By grace of God, or sleight of hand, he wears the royal
vesture,
And at thy throne, Divine Success! we kneel with
reverent gesture,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

O when the Sun is over us, we venerate the sun-light;
But when Eclipse is over it, we venerate the dun-light,
No matter what is uppermost, upon all-fours we revel,
And when Hell triumphs over heaven — conciliate the
Devil,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Ah, Louis, had you come to us despised and rejected,
You might have gone to — Coventry, unnoticed and
neglected:

But as you've done one Nation so, and left another un-
done,
We kiss you, Sire, at Windsor — crown you more than
king in London,
And bow, bow, bow:

We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Our Idol's hands are red with blood, with blood his
eyes are sodden,
But we know 'tis only guilty blood which he has spilt
and trodden!
He wears the imperial purple now, that plotting prince
of evil;
He lets us share his glory if we bow down to the
Devil;

And we bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

With hand to hilt, and ear to earth, waits Revolution,
breathless,
To catch the resurrection sound of Liberty the death-
less!

We see no Banger hug us round — no Sword hang o'er
us gory,
While to this mocking Mirage in the sunset of our
glory
We bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Back, back, you foolish Peoples, slink into your weep-
ing places,
Quench Freedom's torch in tears, and put her light out
in your faces:

The heart of England beats no more to the old heroic
level;

The poor old Woman bows before her Portrait of the
Devil.

Bow, bow, bow:

She may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.