And darest thou thyself compare
With one who quaffs at Helicon;
Whose playfellows the Muses are,
And whom Apollo calleth son?
Who, had he lived in olden day,
With some fierce host had strode along;
Like Taillefer to Hasting’s fray,
Cheering the Normans with his song.

The laurel wreath Apollo gave
I would not change for kingly crown;
A King is but an exalted slave,
Rebellion soon may hurl him down.
But who can force me from the height
Whereto I’ve soared on Eagle’s wing?
I leave to Monarchs ceaseless fright
For what the coming day may bring.

Though poor I be, I’ve Minstrelsy,
When fortune frowns I’ll strike my lyre;
Against the world’s inclemency
’Twill warm my soul with heavenly fire.
Then wonder not if proud the air
Of one who’s high Apollo’s son;
Nor henceforth dare thyself compare
With one who quaffs at Helicon.