Your pride is yet no mate for ours,
Too proud to think a title fame.
We hail the genius—not the lord:
We love the poet's truer charms.
A simple singer with his dreams
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.
Baron Alfred Vere de Vere,
I see you march, I hear you say,
"Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes!"
Is all the burden of your lay.