From In Praise of Ale by W. T. Marchant (London: George Redway, 1888):


THE LIFE AND DEATH OF OLD KING COLE.
The last new Version.

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He call'd for his pipe, he call'd for his glass,
And he call'd for his fiddlers three.
There was Paganini and Spagnioletti,
And to make up the three, Mori;
For King Cole he was fond of a tri—
—O, fond of a trio was he.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole kept court at the "Hole
O' the wall" in Chancery—
—Lane, near the street, which is termèd "Fleet,"
(A queer name for Chanceree,)
So his subjects to cloak, from the very provok—
—ing bills of an attornee.
Old King Cole turn'd his eyes to Coke,
And a very good lawyer was he.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole, though a merry old soul,
Not read nor write could he;
For to read and write, 'twere useless quite,
When he kept a secretaree.
So his mark for "Rex" was a single "X"
And his drink was ditto double;
For he scorn'd the fetters of four and twenty letters,
And it sav'd him a vast deal of trouble.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole, was a musical soul,
So he call'd for his fiddlers three;
And he serv'd 'em out a dozen pounds of best German resin,
And they play'd him a symphony.
Spagnioletti and Mori, they played an oratori,
While the great Paganini
Play'd "God save the King" on a single string,
And he went twelve octaves high.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole lov'd smoking to his soul,
And a pipe, hard, clean, and dry;
And Virginny and C'naster from his baccy-box went faster,
Than the "Dart," or the "Brighton Fly."
With his fiddlers three, and his secretaree,
He'd kick up such a furious fume,
You'd think all the gas of London in a mass,
Had met in his little back-room.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole was a mellow old soul,
And he lov'd for to lave his clay,
But not with water, for he had in that quarter,
An hydrophobia.
So he always ordered hemp for those that join'd a temp—
—erance society;
And he swore a drop too much, should always finish such
As refuse for to wet t'other eye.
For old King Cole, &c.

On old King Cole's left cheek was a mole,
So he call'd for his secretaree;
And he bade him look in a fortune-telling book,
And read him his destiny.
And the secretary said, when his fate he had read,
And cast his nativity:
A mole on the face, boded something might take place,
But not what that something might be.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole, he scratch'd his pole,
And resign'd to his fate was he;
And he said it is our will, that our pipe and glass you fill,
And call for our fiddlers three.
So Paganini took Viotti in by,
And his concerto play'd he;
But at page forty-four King Cole began to snore,
So they parted company.
For old King Cole, &c.

Old King Cole drank so much alcohol,
That he reek'd like the worm of a still;
And while lighting his pipe, he set himself alight,
And he blew up like a gunpowder mill.
And these are the whole of the records of King Cole,
From the Cotton Library,
If you like you can see 'em at the British Museum,
In Russell Street, Bloomsbury.
For old King Cole, &c.

His subjects duly followed the example of their King