When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob, <br />With a saint at his chin and a seal at his fob, <br />Shall not see one New-Years-day in that year, <br />Then let old England make good cheer: <br />Windsor and Bristol then shall be <br />Joined together in the Low-countree. <br />Then shall the tall black Daventry Bird <br />Speak against peace right many a word; <br />And some shall admire his coneying wit, <br />For many good groats his tongue shall slit. <br />But spight of the Harpy that crawls on all four, <br />There shall be peace, pardie, and war no more <br />But England must cry alack and well-a-day, <br />If the stick be taken from the dead sea. <br />And, dear Englond, if ought I understond, <br />Beware of Carrots from Northumberlond. <br />Carrots sown Thynne a deep root may get, <br />If so be they are in Somer set: <br />Their Conyngs mark thou; for I have been told, <br />They assassine when younge, and poison when old. <br />Root out these Carrots, O thou, whose name <br />is backwards and forwards always the same; <br />And keep thee close to thee always that name <br />Which backwards and forwards is almost the same. <br />And, England, wouldst thou be happy still, <br />Burn those Carrots under a Hill.<br /><br />Jonathan Swift<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-windsor-prophecy/
