The Bastard King of England

	The Canfield Collection contains a letter signed by R. E. Banta of Crawfordsville, Indiana, in 1926, who passes on a story from a friend attributing the authorship of "Bastard King" to a "literary gentleman [who] was at that time continuing the good work of whoever started the Frank Merriwell or Tom Swift or possibly Elsie Dinsmore series."  	
During the early part of the first world war, Banta wrote, this writer had been called upon to "give some sort of entertainment at a farewell for a departing batch of second lieutenants."  Sufficiently liquored, he did.
The song spread rapidly, for Banta notes "all the versions I've heard -- from widely separated origins..." are quite similar.  The Canfield report of the song is the earliest noted, edging the 1927 Immortalia printing by a year.

[ B ]

Oh, the minstrels sing of an English King,
Of many long years ago, 
He ruled his land with an iron hand,
Though his mind was weak and slow.
He loved to hunt the royal stag,
Around the royal wood,
But better by far he loved to sit,
And pound the royal pud.

Chorus: 
He was lousy and dirty and covered in fleas,
The hair on his balls hung down to his knees,
God bless the bastard King of England.

Now the Queen of Spain was an amorous Jane,
And a sprightly wench was she,
She longed to fool with the royal tool,
From far across the sea.
So she sent a royal message,
With a royal messenger,
To invite the King of England down,
To spend the night with her.

Now Ol' Philip of France he heard by chance,
Within his royal court,
And he swore, "She loves my rival best,
Because my tool is short.
I'll give the Queen a dose of clap,
To pass it on to the bastard King of England."

When news of this foul deed was heard,
Within the royal halls,
The King he swore by the royal whore,
He'd have the Frenchman's balls,
He offered half the royal purse,
And a piece of Queen Hortense,
To any British subject,
Who would do the King of France.

So the noble duke of Middlesex,
He took himself to France,
He swore he was a fairy,
So the King let drop his pants,
Then on Philip's dong he slipped a thong,
Leaped on his horse and galloped along,
Dragging the Frenchman back to merry old England.

When they returned to London town,
Within fair England's shores,
Because of the ride King Philip's pride,
Was stretched a yard or more,
And all the whores in silken drawers,
Came down to London town,
And shouted round the battlements,
"To hell with the British crown."

And Philip alone usurped the throne,
His scepter was his royal bone, 
With which he ditched the bastard King of England.
Rule, Britannia, marmalade and jam,
Five Chinese crackers up your asshole,
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

This is from that perverse blend of cross-country running, hare and hounds, and rugby traditions known as hashing, ostensibly sung to the the melody of "The Irish Washerwoman."
Verses three, five and seven each appear to be missing two lines.  The chorus is also missing a line, but can be fitted to the tune despite that.
With a tune indicated, it is number 169 in Paul Woodford, "Hash Hymns II" (Honolulu, Hawaii, 1994); the same is in Professor Zippy, Songmeister (Charles Baumerich), The Definitive Song Book of the Hash House Harriers (Colorado Springs, Colo.: Pikes Peak H4, c. 1994), pp. 10-11.  Neither explain how the last verse is to be sung.