Your tongue is always in your cheek
At poverty that's not in fashion.
You like a ploughman's rugged face,
Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;
But bowler hats are commonplace,
And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.
The clerk that sings "God save the King,"
And still believes his Tory paper,—
You hate the anæmic fool? I thought
You loved the weak! Was that all vapour?