Clenched about his Master's thighs So snug, so tight, a handsome prize Jodhpurs there, to rival any Woven by a Spinning Jenny In the heart of green Kilkenny Alone by night, while household sleeps Above the stairs, a servant creeps For there to don the Jodhpurs proud Pretending he were so endowed Though knowing well 'twas not allowed A butler he, though filled with malice For drink he does, from silken chalice And dressing up, his sinful prank To dare outdo a butler's rank Without the grace to take a spank As full moon shines, above the moors And down upon his Master's drawers Where butler snatches at the handle And in stupor, drops his candle Then freezes to avoid the scandal A sleeping Gent, one dare not stir Lest his wrath thou wouldst incur But stir he does, and with a roar Spies butler sneaking t'ward the door And Jodhpurs there, upon the floor A mortal sin, a butler's worst And ever shamed, and ever cursed This servant, whipped with rod and cane Does bleat and whimper, all in vain As Master strikes him once again His beating, though, has just begun For where the Spinning Jenny spun We watch him weaving Jodhpurs many And earning not a single penny In the heart of green Kilkenny