A GENTLEMAN.
‘What is it makes a Gentleman? ’Tis not his high estate,
His liveried footmen, or the grooms that on his orders wait,—
The horses and the carriages that stand before his gate,
The tenants who bow low to him, and think him very great.
Chorus—
These do not make the Gentleman, whate’er his station be!
‘What is it makes a Gentleman? Not colour of his skin,—
The Negro, black as ebony, may yet be fair within;
The weak, the lowly, and the poor, a glorious race may win,—