Classic Poem

Air

For often my mammy has told,
 And sure she is wond'rous wise,
In cities that all you behold
 Is a fair, but a faithless, disguise:
That the modes of a court education
 Are train-pits and traitors to youth;
And the only fine language in fashion
 A tongue that is foreign to truth.

Where honour is barely an oath,
 Where knaves are with noblemen classed,
Where nature's a stranger to both,
 And love an old tale of times past;
Where laughter no pleasure dispenses,
 Where smiles are the envoys of art,
Where joy lightly swims on the senses,
 But never can enter the heart.

Where hopes and kind hugs are trepanners,
 Where virtue's divorced from success,
Where cringing goes current for manners,
 And worth is no deeper than dress;
Where favour creeps lamely on crutches,
 Where friendship is nothing but face,
And the title of Duke or of Duchess
 Is all that entitles to grace.