We mark the slums that fester near,
And dirt and squalor still we find;
But reason whispers in our ear,
“It’s not so bad, or dukes would mind.”
Oh, fie on agitating elves
Who say the market is a blot!
They ought to murmur to themselves,
“The duke’s contented with the spot.”
He draws his rents, he hoards his gold;
What cares he for the vulgar throng!