He was bred on "Spit and Polish"—he was reared to "Stick and String"—
All the things the ultra-moderns never name;
But a storm blew up to seaward, and it meant the Real Thing,
And he had to slip his cable when it came.
So he hied him up to London for to hang about Whitehall,
And he sat upon the steps there soon and late,
He importuned night and morning, he bombarded great and small,
From messengers to Ministers of State;
He was like a guilty conscience, he was like a ghost unlaid,
He was like a debt of which you can't get rid,