Nicholas Shrimpton (With apologies to Sir Francis Hastings Doyle)
Last night among his fellow roughs,
He plotted, schemed, and swore;
An anxious statesman of the Bluffs,
Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown,
He stands in Charles’s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,
And type of all her race.
Rich, reckless, posh, well-born, well-taught,
Bewildered and alone,
A heart with leftish instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that straight through him
Shall England come to shame.