[“Finally it is proof of his faith in his race and
his country that he owns twenty thousand acres in
England and fifteen thousand in Scotland; and he has
no terrors even of Mr. Lloyd George’s budgets.”]
Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve
Hearing you thus old Mammon’s faith profess
And the career of commerce interweave
With terms of more than standard unctuousness;
For (you yourself have said it) what reward
Hope you enrolled among the sworn defenders
Of one who, while you tender your regard,
Remains impassive and regards his tenders?
True he has great possessions, well they might
Stagger your brain and sway your understanding,
His English leagues—while English paupers fight
To hang their washing on a London landing;
Also (’tis as you say) while they the facts
Deplore of governmental tolls, his rest
Is still secure, nor any Georgian Acts
Rouse panic terror in that sturdy breast.
And yet, and yet, Dear Sir, it would not do
For all of us to kiss the feet that Fate
Has set upon our necks although (with you)
We own they are superlatively great;—
Here is a rule to save the like mistakes
And sift the patriots from the money-makers,
These take an interest in their country’s aches,
And those an interest on their country’s acres.