_Prophets have honour all over the Earth,_ _Except in the village where they were born;_ _Where such as knew them boys from birth,_ _Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn._

  _When Prophets are naughty and young and vain,_ _They make a won'erful grievance of it;_ _(You can see by their writings how they __complain),_ _But O, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet!_

  _There's nothing Nineveh Town can give,_ _(Nor being swallowed by whales between),_ _Makes up for the place where a man's folk live,_ _That don't care nothing what he has been._ _He might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this,_ _But they love and they hate him for what he is!_