[Verse 1] Torches crowd St Martin's-le-Grand, the craftsmen's quarter, Lincoln leads the mob where the outlandish neighbors gather — outlandish, that's just "foreign," a word from olden days, Doll's in a shirt of mail, sword drawn, shield raised, ready to blaze. The Betts brothers flank her, Williamson grips a stave, Sherwin hangs back uneasy, and the Clown starts to rave, chanting rude little rhymes like a drumbeat for the brawl, stirring the restless hundred lined along the wall. [Chorus] "Shall strangers rule the roast? yes; but we'll baste the roast" — that's the Clown's own joke, friends, hear what he boasts. Rule the roast means run the house, be cock of the walk, baste means scorch them back — that's the mob's ugly talk. Same old song you've heard on every modern street, foreigners taking over, the chant that won't retreat. [Verse 2] Lincoln climbs a cart and says the courts have gone soft, justice doesn't scare the strangers, so the law gets tossed aloft. "Shall these enjoy more privilege than we In our own country?" he cries out furiously, and names the richest houses: there's Mutas the Picard, see, a Frenchman's grand old mansion, straight from history — fifteen-seventeen, real riot, this scene's no fantasy. Sherwin tugs his sleeve, "A fire will not pick and choose, light one roof in London, the whole town's set to lose." [Verse 3] They storm the kennels — Lincoln's insult for strangers' homes, calling fine houses doghouses as through empty rooms they roam. But every stranger's vanished, every Fleming, every Dutch — fugitives means refugees, slipped from the mob's clutch. Not a soul left standing, just abandoned pots and looms, the craftsmen's trade and talent gone through back doors and side rooms. [Verse 4] Word arrives: the Mayor's gathering, the Privy Council too, raising armed men swiftly, closing fast upon the crew. Lincoln thinks on his feet: "We'll be ourselves rough ministers at law" — rough ministers means judge and punisher, lawless and raw. So burn the empty houses, let the smoke and panic reign, while the Mayor's busy dousing fires, the rioters slip the chain. [Chorus] "Shall strangers rule the roast? yes; but we'll baste the roast" — Rule the roast means run the house, be cock of the walk, baste means scorch them back — that's the mob's ugly talk. Same old song you've heard on every modern street, foreigners taking over, the chant that won't retreat. [Outro] The Clown shrugs off the gallows shadow creeping near: "If hanging come, 'tis welcome; that's the worst" — no fear. Centuries later the slogans still ring the same, More's old play still warns us where fire and fear can aim.
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