_Prophets have honour all over the Earth,_
_Except in the village where they were born;_
_Where such as knew them boys from birth,_
_Nature-ally hold ’em in scorn._
_When Prophets are naughty and young and vain,_
_They make a won’erful grievance of it;_
_(You can see by their writings how they __complain),_
_But O, ’tis won’erful good for the Prophet!_
_There’s nothing Nineveh Town can give,_
_(Nor being swallowed by whales between),_
_Makes up for the place where a man’s folk live,_
_That don’t care nothing what he has been._
_He might ha’ been that, or he might ha’ been this,_
_But they love and they hate him for what he is!_