Her pæans, sung in ev’ry quarter,

Almost persuade Le Gallienne

To go and get his hair cut shorter;

When Kipling hears her trumpet-note

He longs to don a petticoat.

Her praise is sung by old or young,

From Happy Hampstead to Hoboken,

Where’er old England’s mother-tongue

Is (ungrammatically) spoken:

In that supremely simple set