Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
My blood is bluer than your own.
Don't bid me break your heart again
For pastime, ere to town I go;
I'll not do that, my noble Lord,
But give you something that I owe.
Baron Alfred T. de T.,
When you were in that angry fit
You turned to me and thundered out,
"Go, teach the orphan girl to knit."