Come, cropper lads of high renown,
Who love to drink good ale that’s brown,
And strike each haughty tyrant down,
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, the cropper lads for me,
The gallant lads for me,
Who with lusty stroke,
The shear frame broke,
The cropper lads for me!

What though the specials still advance,
And soldiers nightly round us prance;
The cropper lads still lead the dance,
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, &c.

And night by night when all is still
And the moon is hid behind the hill,
We forward march to do our will
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, &c.

Great Enoch still shall lead the van.
Stop him who dare! stop him who can!
Press forward every gallant man
With hatchet, pike, and gun!
Oh, &c.