And they be rare, though there be such,
Whose word you may rely on;
And many, aye, who promise much,
But few whose word is iron.

I’ve met ’em in the banking line,
And one — a steward farmer;
They rob you as they sip your wine,
Their impudence their armour.
The worst they do is wield a pen
To scar your faith in others,
They leave their victims lesser men,
Distrustful of their brothers.
They hold their word at less than nought,
Their conscience long since stunted —
(Much, much too clever to be caught
They grovel when confronted) —
But hard it is, as friends might tell,
To jam their heads in nooses,
To know a man — and know him well,
Is but to make excuses.

And they be rare, though there be such,
Whose word you may rely on;
There’s many, aye, who promise much,
But few whose word is iron.