Thy father, as is known to all,
A donkey was, beyond denial;
Thy mother on the other hand
A noble brood-mare proved on trial.
Thy mulish nature, worthy friend,
Though little liked, a thing of course is;
Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,
That thou belongest to the horses.
Thou spring’st from proud Bucephalus;
Thy fathers were with the invaders
Who to the Holy Sepulchre
Of old time went, the famed Crusaders.
Thou countest ’mongst thy relatives
The charger ridden by the glorious
Sir Godfrey of Bouillon the day
He took God’s town with arm victorious.
Thou canst aver that Bayard’s steed
Thy cousin was, and say (andante)
Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,
The most heroic Rosinante.
But Sancho’s donkey thou’lt not own
As kin, he being much too lowly;
Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foal
That whilome bore the Saviour holy.
And thou art not obliged to stick
A long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;
Of thine own value be the judge,
And thou wilt never lay too much on.