A certain likeness to our 'Arry,
Yet 'tis but slight.
He could not sit, the noisy brute!
And natural music mildly flute,
Till the assembled nymphs were mute
With sheer delight.
He'd want the banjo and the bones,
And rowdy words, and raucous tones,
And roaring chorus.
Urchin, I've done you grievous wrong!