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THE Plutocrat sat in his velvet chair,

A merchant prince and a millionnaire;

A library smiled from a noble's case, -

With a money lord it had found its place.

The pictures and paintings of every kind

Were varied enough to suit every mind.

Portfolios too, filled with etchings of old,

Worth twice their weight in the balance of gold,

And relics and gems of fame and renown;

'T was the richest room in the old boroughtown.

Yet the Plutocrat sighed; his regal abode

Was suited for many an old Saxon lord,

But to him the estate that with thousands he bought

Was only a plaything with misery fraught.

He longed for the ease his fortune should bring, -

A place in the world and a bow from his king.

The Aristocrat knew that his bank-stock was low,

But never a sign of want would he show.

He took from his chest his "family tree,"

And looked up his arms in his land's "Heraldry."

He knew that his grandsire fought for King James,

Whose grandsire had fallen on Nottingham's plains.

His money had gone, - for a very long time!

But his blood was pure, and honored his line.

What matter if all in his house - like his plate -

Was worn nearly out, and quite out of date?

He felt, as he rode his one sorry nag,

His blood had been shed for old England's-flag;

His ancestors fought for old England's name,

He could live on the past and the records of fame.

And true to his King, his church, and his wife,

He'd live as they lived, to the end of his life!


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