Classic Poem

An old Borough-reeve served a politic Duke,
And proved, by so doing, a wise man;
For the politic Duke opportunity took
To make his friend's son an exciseman.

Dick, led by his father, the nobleman saw,
And certainly well to behave meant;
With many a bow he put out his fore paw,
And scraped his hind leg on the pavement.

“I'm come, Sir, to thank you, but feel here a burr;
At speaking I be but a fresh un:”
The Borough-reeve whispered, “Boy, don't call him Sir,
Your Grace is the proper expression.”

“When feyther, Sir, told me I'd gotten the place,
I skipt like a colt in a paddock;”—
“Sir, again?” cried the father,—“you fool! say your Grace—
Say your Grace—you're as deaf as a haddock!

Thus tutor'd, the son of the old Borough-reeve
Cried out, with a pious endeavour,—
“For what we are going this day to receive,
The Lord make us thankful for ever!”