Now gilded youth loves cutty-pipes
And slang that’s rather rancid,
It can’t approach its prototypes
In tone—or so I’ve fancied.
In Brummel’s day of buckle-shoes,
Starch cravats, and roll collars,
They’d talk, and woo, and bet—and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars,
But now young nobles go the pace
With blacklegs, grooms, and tailors;