My boy, you may take it from me, 
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man's saddled 
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature's the worst.
Though clever as clever can be – 
A Crichton of early romance – 
You must stir it and stump it, 
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance!

If you wish in the world to advance,
Your merits you're bound to enhance,
You must stir it and stump it, 
And blow your own trumpet, 
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance! 

Now take, for example, my case:
I've a bright intellectual brain –
In all London city There's no one so witty –
I've thought so again and again.
I've a highly intelligent face –
My features cannot be denied –
But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in – and why, sir?
I'm modesty personified!

If you wish in the world to advance,
Your merits you're bound to enhance,
You must stir it and stump it, 
And blow your own trumpet, 
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance!

As a poet, I'm tender and quaint –
I've passion and fervour and grace –
From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint:
Though none are accomplished as I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason? 
I'm diffident, modest, and shy!

If you wish in the world to advance,
Your merits you're bound to enhance,
You must stir it and stump it, 
And blow your own trumpet, 
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance!