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.