THE MAN WITH THE TUFT.
I
I ever at college
From commoners shrank,
Still craving the knowledge
Of people of rank:
In my glass, my lord's ticket
I eagerly stuffed;
And all call'd me “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft.
II
My patron—most noble—
Of highest degree!
Thou never canst probe all
My homage for thee!
Thy hand—oh! I'd lick it,
Though often rebuff'd;
And still I am “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft!
III
Too oft the great, shutting
Their doors on the bold,
Do deeds that are cutting,
Say words that are cold!
Through flattery's wicket
My body I've stuff'd,
And so I am “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft!
IV
His lordship's a poet,
Enraptured I sit;
He's dull—(and I know it)—
I call him a wit!
His fancy, I nick it,
By me he is puff'd,
And still I am “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft!
