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From the famous peak of derby
And the devil’s arse that’s hard by
Where we yearly make our musters
There the gypsies throng in clusters
Be not frightened by our fashion
Though we seem a tattered nation
We account our rags our riches
So our tricks exceed our stitches
Give us bacon, rinds of walnuts,
Shells of cockles, and of small nuts.
Ribonds, bells, and saffron linnin
And all the world is ours to win in
