The Viscount and the Duke

So comes the Vis­count on the lake,
To the land of the rolling hills of green,
Wherein he’ll join the Duke for cake,
To lunch on tea and fine cuisine.

Then p’r’aps they’ll climb into the hills,
The trees will part to make a path,
The Duke com­mands, his voice instills,
Upon the wood a tyrant’s wrath.

‘Twill bend the boughs in var­ied ways,
To ‘com­mo­date those dandy chaps,
Bedecked and draped so to amaze,
The lowly plebe, who looks and claps.

And then toward home they will return,
In the val­ley to their coun­try haunt,
To rest at hearth and to adjourn,
To ne’er again pro­ceed avant.

They’ll lounge and gorge their ample guts,
From richly laden trays of gold,
With fruit and meat, cheese, bread, and nuts,
A sight – I’m sure – they’re to behold.

They’ll laze about with fer­ment leaf,
Which into their pipes they’ll stuff,
And puff the Injun’s great­est grief,
And puff and puff and puff.

They’ll soz­zle all the grey within,
Their mot­tled, mud­dled minds,
They’ll laugh and belch and swal­low gin,
And grope at plump behinds.

In all their raunchy deca­dence,
All their hold­ings shall be lost,
And in their Lordships’s absence,
Their peas­ants will these gents accost.

They’ll bat­ter down the painted doors,
They’ll burn the car­riage house,
While their Lord­ships hide in the linen draw­ers,
To sober from their souse.

And when the estate is in ruin,
They’ll come out to see the sun,
Out hiber­na­tion, like the bruin,
From hunters must they run.

Lest their rau­cous ple­beian ten­ants,
See the slovenly Lords of the place,
And raise their torches, forks, and pen­nants,
And give to the good sportsmen’s chase.

The moral, I’d gather,
Is that Lords who indulge,
Are left unpre­pared,
When rebel­lions divulge.