A careless, calm, contented knave,
 A man who does not wince, as some might,
When people beg him to behave—
 Such is the modern slummite.
The holy man shows up his sins:
 He speaks his mind. He scorns to flatter.
The slummite drains his beer, and grins:
 “It doesn’t matter.”

He takes his glass, he reads no tracts,
 He looks askance at those who’ve sent ’em—
He strives, like Horace, in his acts
 Æquam servare mentem.
The parson sneers, the parson pleads
 (Sometimes the one, anon the latter);
One single answer he concedes:
 “It doesn’t matter.”

’Twas ever thus: the candid friend
 Never appealed to Alf or ’Erry:
The dwellers in the Far East-End
 Scorn checks when making merry.
Reproof they steadfastly repel;
 When critics at their customs batter,
They bid those critics go to ——well,
 It doesn’t matter.