Smart men that, swift as streak of lightning greased,
Make and spend “tin”—not only we that prate
Of progress, learning, and “Excelsior,”
Have loved ourselves full well and turned up trumps
At life’s great game of whist—but surely he
“Did more, and underwent, and overcame,”—
The wight of some few hundred summers back,
Whittington, ’prentice erst to some dull cit,
Some wheezy councilman—who worked him hard,
And gave him the allowance monkeys have,