I feel the shortening of my wits and the lengthening of my ears,
So I'm to be one of the peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
The night winds come and go, Vicky, upon the meadow grass;
There are guineas for the rhymster and thistles for the ass:
I have been your rhyming flunkey for over thirty years;
Now I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.
There will be poets after me, not fresh and green and still,
Who care less for a Prince's nod than for the People's will,
Not rhyming royal nuptials and singing royal biers;
But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers.