FROM east and south the holy clan Of Bishops gathered to a man;To Synod,called PanAnglican,In flocking crowds they came.
Among them was a Bishop,who Had lately been appointed to The balmy isle of RumtiFoo,And PETER was his name.
His people twentythree in sum
They played the eloquent tumtum,And lived on scalps served up,in rum The only sauce they knew.
When first good BISHOP PETER came (For PETER was that Bishop's name),To humour them,he did the same As they of RumtiFoo.
His flock,I've often heard him tell,(His name was PETER)loved him well,And,summoned by the sound of bell,In crowds together came.
"Oh,massa,why you go away?
Oh,MASSA PETER,please to stay."
(They called him PETER,people say,Because it was his name.)He told them all good boys to be,And sailed away across the sea,At London Bridge that Bishop he Arrived one Tuesday night;And as that night he homeward strode To his PanAnglican abode,He passed along the Borough Road,And saw a gruesome sight.
He saw a crowd assembled round A person dancing on the ground,Who straight began to leap and bound With all his might and main.
To see that dancing man he stopped,Who twirled and wriggled,skipped and hopped,Then down incontinently dropped,And then sprang up again.
The Bishop chuckled at the sight.
"This style of dancing would delight A simple RumtiFoozleite.
I'll learn it if I can,To please the tribe when I get back."
He begged the man to teach his knack.
"Right Reverend Sir,in half a crack!
Replied that dancing man.