Tom Maguire,
Torn with ire,
Lighted on McDougall;
Grabbed his throat,
Tore his coat,
And split him in the bugle.

Shame! Oh, fie!
Maguire, why
Will you thus skyugle?
Why bang and claw,
And gouge and chaw
The unprepared McDougall.

Of bones bereft,
See how you've left,
Vestvali, gentle Jew gal —
And now you've slashed,
And almost hashed,
The form of poor McDougall.