Here's my transcription from the image at the Bodleian Library Broadside Ballads [Firth c.19(250)]

THE GREAT MEAT PIE

PRICE ONE PENNY

The Poet is proud in publishing this very popular song, which was presented to him by his worthy friend Mr Charles Watson, late of the Shakspere Saloon here, and presently and important member of the company of the Theatre Royal in Dover. It is creating an immense sensation throughout the three kingdoms, and the Poet is happy in now being enabled to supply the millions with copies, which can only be had in the Box, [No. 6 St. Andrew's lane, Glasgow].

Air—The Wonderful Crocodile.

You've heard of the wond'rous Crocodile,
    And the thund'ring great Sea Snake—
No doubt, it's often made you smile,
    And caused your sides to ache.
Now I've a tale that will make you laugh,
    For a month to come or nigh—
So listen, while I tell you about,
    A stunning great meat pie.
               Tol, lol, &c.

As through the country I did stroll,
    On business rather pressing,
I stopped at the sign of the Toad in the Hole,
    To give my stomach a dressing.
I'd scarcely poked my nose in when,
    Without a word of a lie,
There was just three hundred and fifty men
    Going to pitch into a pie.
                Tol, lol, &c.

It was a stunner, out and out,
    To describe I'm scarce able—
It took about sixty ploughmen stout,
    To serve it up to table.
It was a tidy weight, 'tis clear—
    It's a fact not worth disowning—
For half a mile off you might hear
    The tables actually groaning.
                Tol, lol, &c.

You may guess it was a tidy size—
    It took a week to make it ;
A day to carry it to the shop,
    And another week to bake it.
Oh, had you seen it, I'll be bound,
    Your wonder you'd scarce govern—
They were forced to knock the front wall down,
    To get it into the oven.
                Tol, lol, &c.

It took about thirty sacks of flour,
    It's a fact now what I utter,
Three hundred pails of water too,
    And a hundred firkins of butter.
The crust was nearly seven feet thick,
    You couldn't easily bruise it ;
And the rolling pin was such a size,
    It took twelve men to use it.
                Tol, lol, &c.

This pie contained as much rump steak
    As would supply the navy—
And bullocks' melts enough to make
    Full ninety gallons of gravy—
With fifty ducks, two stone a piece—
    Enough for any glutton ;
Twelve fillets of veal and forty geese,
    And thirty legs of mutton.
                Tol, lol, &c.

There were twenty-five spare ribs of pork,
    I'm sure I'm not mistaken—
Two and thirty hams from York,
    And twenty sides of bacon.
The pie was made by fifty cooks,
    And all of them first-raters,
Who finished the filling up, odzooks,
    With a ton of kidney taters.
                Tol, lol, &c.

When word was given, a general rush
    Took place to hack and hew it—
They began to clamber up the crust,
    To get their knives into it.
When all at once, the crust gave way,
    They thought it was much thicker,
And ninety-five poor souls, they say,
    Were completely drowned in the liquor.
                Tol, lol, &c.

This took away their appetites,
    They took it as a warning,
And after that Pie-ratic night,
    They went in general mourning.
So ever since, the village folks,
    Although they live like good uns,
The pie stuck so fast in their throats,
    They eat nothing now but puddings.
                Tol, lol, &c.

——

SONGS, PARODIES, and EPITAPHS of all kinds, written by the Poet, on the shortest notice, from 2s 6d and upwards.

Saturday morning, January 5, 1856.