There was a king in Brentford,-of whom no legends tell,
But who, without his glory,-could eat and sleep right well.
His Polly's cotton nightcap,-it was his crown of state,
He slept of evenings early,-and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace,-each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honor,-a dog ran at his heels,
Sometimes, to view his kingdoms,-rode forth this monarch good,
And then a prancing jackass-he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits-with which this king was curst,
Except (and where's the harm on't?)-a somewhat lively thirst;
But people must pay taxes,-and kings must have their sport,
So out of every gallon-His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him,-with manners soft and bland;
With reason good, they named him,-the father of his land.
Each year his mighty armies-marched forth in gallant show;
Their enemies were targets-their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor,-no useless conquest made,
But by the laws of pleasure,-his peaceful realm he swayed.
And in the years he reigned,-through all this country wide,
There was no cause for weeping,-save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford,-do still their king deplore,
His portrait yet is swinging,- beside an alehouse door.
And topers, tender-hearted,-regard his honest phiz,
And envy times departed-that knew a reign like his.