“Shall I,” he cried, “who made the Hun skedaddle
    And caused the Wacht an Rhein to lose its job,
  Taught Johnny Turk the use of boot and saddle
    And fetched out FERDINANDO for a blob—­
  Shall I allow each little grinning urchin
    To move me from my purpose?  Shall I shrink
  For fear of idle Rumour wagging her chin? 
      No, no!  I do not think.

  “My high emprise may set the suburbs hooting
    And lay me under Balham’s local curse;
  There be—­I know it—­those in Upper Tooting
    Would lynch the prophet and insult his hearse;
  But when my feet have kicked this mortal bucket
    Millions will bless me!—­more I cannot ask;
  So, John, distract me not!  Jemima, chuck it! 
      And, Jane, bring forth the mask!”