From Cornwall to Northumberland,
Through many a fair countée;
Yet England’s Church, its King, its laws,
Its cause I value not,
Compar’d with this, my constant text—
A penny sav’d, is got.
No drop of Princely Percy’s blood
Through these cold veins doth run;
With Hotspur’s castles, blazon, name,
I still am poor Smithson.