From Hodgson's New Skylark; or, Theatrical budget of harmony ... by M. Bryant (London: Hodgson & Co., 1823), page 22:

OLD KING COLE.
As Sung by Miss Copeland, at the Surrey Theatre, in Harlequin Hoax.

1. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He call’d for his bottle, and he called for his glass,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
And every fiddler had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he;
"Tweedle dee, tweedle dee," says the fiddler,
And so merry shall they be;
For none there are that can compare
With the sons of harmony.

2. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And he called for his harpers three;
And every harper had a harp,
And a very fine harp had he.
"Twang, twang, twang, twang," says the harper;
"Tweedle dee, tweedle dee," says the fiddler;
And so merry, &c.

3. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And he call’d for his fifers three;
And every fifer had a fife,
And a very fine fife had he.
"Toodle loo, loodle loo,” says the fifer,
And so merry, &c.

4. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And he call’d for his drummers three;
And every drummer had a drum,
And a very fine drum had he.
"Rub a dub, rub a dub," says the drummer,
And so merry, &c.

5. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And he call’d for his trumpeters three;
And every trumpeter had a trumpet,
And a very tine trumpet had he.
"Ran ta tan, ran ta tan," says the trumpeter,
And so merry, &c.

6. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And he call’d for his tailors three;
And every tailor had a needle,
And a very fine needle had he.
"In and out, through the coat," says the tailor,
And so merry, &c.

7. Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And he call’d for his cobblers three;
And every cobbler had an awl,
And a very fine awl had he.
"Bore a hole through the sole," says the cobbler;
"In and out, through the coat," says the tailor;
"Ran ta tan, ran ta ran," says the trumpeter;
"Rub a dub, rub a dub," says the drummer;
"Toodle loo, toodle loo," says the fifer;
"Twang, twang, twang, twang," says the harper;
"Twcedle dee, tweedle dee," says the fiddler;
And so merry we will be;
For none there are, who can compare,
With the sons of harmony!