For his happy, careless nature doesn’t fit the poet’s style;
No, he don’t resemble Cæsar in his looks or in his speech,
Nor Napoleon nor Cromwell—why, they ain’t within his reach.
He’s a decent sort of cobber, but he doesn’t push a claim
To be classed “a gallant guardian of Britain’s honoured name.”
I’ve a grouch on jingo writers and the poets and them all,
Who have placed us common persons on a public pedestal;
Will they dust our coats and speak to us and help us when we fall,
Or paste a different label on us—something very small?
It’s their fault I’m entertaining just a tiny little dread