We thought at first, this man is a king for sure,
Or the branch of a mighty and ancient and famous lineage —
That silly, sulky, illiterate, black-avised boor
Who was hatched by foreign vulgarity under a hedge.
The good men of Clare were drinking his health in a flood,
And gazing with me in awe at the princely lad,
And asking each other from what bluest blueness of blood
His daddy was squeezed, and the pa of the da of his dad?
We waited there, gaping and wondering, anxiously,
Until he'd stop eating and let the glad tidings out,
And the slack-jawed booby proved to the hilt that he
Was lout, son of lout, by old lout, and was da to a lout!