You may say if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile. Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, Are popular here because popular there; And for them our ladies persistently go Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know. Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess The effort's attended with easy success; And-pardon the freedom-'tis thought, over here, 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer. It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid, But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose No sound is so sweet as that 'Yes' from the nose. Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot Can stand it (God succor them if they can not!) Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure, And what they're not called on to suffer, endure. ''Tis nothing but money?-your nobles are bought'? As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought That England's a country not specially free Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesæ. You've many a widow and many a girl With money to purchase a duke or an earl. 'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, When goods import buyers from over the sea. Alas for the woman of Albion's isle! She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose- But my lord of the future will talk through his nose.