Come move the song and stir the glass,
For why should we be sad?
Let’s drink to some free-hearted lass,
And Crib, the boxing lad.
And a boxing we will go, will go, will go,
And a boxing we will go.
Italians stab their friends behind,
In darkest shades of night;
But Britons they are bold and kind,
And box their friends by light.
The sons of France their pistols use,
Pop, pop, and they have done:
But Britons with their hands will bruise,
And scorn away to run.
Throw pistols, poniards, swords, aside,
And all such deadly tools;
Let boxing be the Briton's pride,
The science of their schools!
Since boxing is a manly game,
And Britons' recreation;
By boxing we will raise our fame,
'bove any other nation.
Boney doubt it, let him come,
And try with Crib a round;
And Crib shall beat him like a drum,
And make his carcass sound.
Mendoza, Gulley, Molineaux,
Each Nature's weapon wield;
Who each at Boney would stand true,
And never to him yield.
We've many more would like to floor
The little upstart king;
And soon for mercy make him roar
Within a spacious ring.
A fig for Boney—let's have done
With that ungracious name;
We'll drink and pass our nays in fun,
And box to raise our fame.
And a boxing we will go, will go, will go,
And a boxing we will go.
