While war’s alarms, an’ thunderin’ guns bodes evil o’er the sea,
An’ hunger creeps round hearths where yence trade florished joyfully:
Aw think aboot the times an’ smile, altho’ aw’ve caws for pain,
For the gud time’s lang a-comin’, lads, will it ivor come again?
It’s this Yankee war, aw guess, that’s cawsin sic distress,
For meedyashun suin all workin’ men should press;
In England, now, poor starvin’ sowls gan supperless ti bed,
That fain wad toil like slave ti arn thor daily bread.
Oh, this year Sixty-two, dull and sad Sixty-two,
For maistor an’ for men the like we never knew;
Then let us hope that better times, an’ peace from ower the sea,
May smile once more on Britain’s Isle, an’ banish misery.

Aw hing aboot street corners, wi’ maw pipe stuck in my gob,
An’ try ti keep a plisent fyece, altho’ my heart will throb,
Still honest poverty can claim the nyem o’ nee disgrace,
But, lads, it’s hard when hunger meets starvashin’ i’ the face,
Aw wander where aw choose, maw dull hours ti amuse,
Gleenin’ informayshin, so listen ti maw news;
Aw loonge aboot the cuikshops, outside ti get a smell,
An’ often wish that aw cud forge or swindle like Roupell.
Oh, this year, &c.

Amang wor monny troubles noo murder tyeks the lead,
Embezzlement an’ forgin’ crimes fresh ivory day we read;
Even in “wor canny toon,” boot which the world may crack,
Twee villains cawsed the cruel deeth o’ harmless Needle Jack.
On mischief being bent, ti his last long home they sent,
A poor friendless mortal, who wrong ti no one meant,
Man, daily late an’ early, we read o’ feerful crimes,
But let us hope that ’63 ’ill bring us happier times.
Oh, this year, &c.

Frae Denmark here wor future King a grand Princess will bring:
Hae we ne maids in old England fit ti sit aside a King?
He’s nobbit got his choice o’ siven—same ugly, others fair—
So spite iv awl his dignity, wor Prince hes much to care.
Pomp an’ state, aw tell ye this, ne’er create domestic bliss,
For royalty ’mid courtly smiles finds luive is far amiss;
Then let us thank wor lucky stars, tho’ we the times abuse,
We luive wor wives for luivin’ us, and pick them where we choose.
Oh, this year, &c.