This verse—the veriest doggrel verse on earth—
For this small beer were you a lord to be?
Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth?
And what avails thine ancient fame to thee,
Now in thy fallen state?
Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete,
If you can only compass your disgrace,
When all men read these lines of halting feet.
They’ll hurl you from your place
As England’s Laureate!