Workmanlike, you have laid, true and square
And a curiously dinner-rid nation
Has still found you a saint in the chair.
Goodness knows what ineffable dinners,
What drinks deleterious you've borne,
What prosing from long-winded sinners
You've endured with a patience unworn!
You have never pressed forward unbidden;
When called on you've never shown shame
Not paraded, nor prudishly hidden