A song for the Lord Mayor’s table

Let all the Nine Muses lay by their abuses
Their railing and drolling on tricks of the Strand
To pen us a ditty in praise of the City
Their treasure, and pleasure, their pow'r and command

Their feast, and guest, so temptingly drest
Their kitchens all kingdoms replenish;
In bountiful bowls they do succour their souls
With claret, Canary and Rhenish:

Their lives and wives in plenitude thrives
They want not for meat nor money;
The Promised Land's in a Londoner's hand
They wallow in milk and honey

Let all the Nine Muses lay by their abuses
Their railing and drolling on tricks of the Strand
To pen us a ditty in praise of the City
Their treasure, and pleasure, their pow'r and command