Ye belles and beaux of London town,
      Come listen to my ditty;
The Muse in prancing up and down
      Has found out something pretty.
With little hat and hair dress'd high,
      And whip to ride a pony;
If you but take a right survey,
      Denotes a Macaroni.

Along the street to see them walk,
      With tail of monstrous size, sir,
You'll often hear the grave ones talk
      And wish their sons were wiser.
With consequence they strut and grin,
      And fool away their money;
Advice they are for not a pin,—
      Ay,— that's a Macaroni!

With boots and spurs and jockey-cap,
      And breeches like a sack, O;
Like curs sometimes they'll bite and snap,
      And give their whip a smack, O.
When this you see, then think of me,
      My name is Merry Crony;
I'll swear the figure that you see
      Is called a Macaroni.

Five pounds of hair they wear behind,
      The ladies to delight, O;
Their senses give unto the wind,
      To make themselves a fright, O.
This fashion who does e'er pursie,
      I think a simple tony;
For he's a fool, say what you will,
      Who is a Macaroni.