Only page of title Moderate
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With manners of Gadarene hogs,
Inflicting unspeakable tortures
On children and chickens and dogs;
Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows,
And filling their infants with terror,
Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding
That _you_ could perhaps be in error,
Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie,
And hasten away without saying you're sorry!
Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight,
And hark, while I tell you the story
Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight!
When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding
By constables ambushed in Chertsey,
He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,'
But, donning (with marvellous court'sy)
The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,'
Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!'
A creature so rare, so unique,
Who questioned no constable's stop-watch,
Who showed neither temper nor pique,
But said, 'Do your duty! ' in tones rich and fruity,
Admitting at once his transgression,
Content to take _their_ word, with never a swear-word,
To leave an unpleasant impression;
Exclaiming -- his parents were Irish -- 'Begorry!
''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!'
Ye chauffeurs to 'joy-riding' prone,
And seek by apologies ample
For sins of the past to atone.
Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken
In 'bonnet' or brake gets entangled,
Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter
The man whom your motor has mangled;
But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry,
Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry!
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