It was on the fourth of Christmas before the break of day,
When by the force of nature that restless bog gave way,
And while its helpless victims lay wrapped in sweet repose
The moving hills of wonder high o'er their dwelling rose.
2.
How little did they dream of it when they retired to rest,
The little group whom surely the smile of virtue blessed,
How little they thought that ee'r the dawn should light the eastern sky,
That one and all were destined in a watery grave to lie.
3.
O Lord of all creation your works we can't expound,
How many vile defamers still crawl above the ground,
How may wayward prosper and how many tyrants grow,