And a blade as big as a thresher's nail,
On that Dragon's crest to fall.

And like young LAMBTON, or young MORE,
He to the fight advances.
Yet looks to that Slum Dragon o'er,
With caution in his glances.
If he make shift that sword to lift,
And smite that Dragon dead,
No hero young song yet hath sung
A fouler pest hath sped.

Now guard ye, guard ye, young County C.!
That two-edged blade is big, Sir!
That Dragon's so spiky, he well might be
"Some Egyptian porcupig," Sir,
(As the singer of Wantley's Dragon says,
In his quaint and curious story.)
If this Dragon he slays, he shall win men's praise,
And legendary glory.

When London's streets are haunts of health
(Ah! happy if distant, when)
And the death-rate ruleth low, and Wealth
Feeds not on the filthy den;
The men to this champion's memory
Shall lift the brimming flagon,
And drink with glee to young County C,
Who slew the Grim Slum Dragon!