Though constantly we 're in the mire

Though constantly we 're in the mire,
We shine and sparkle with our fire ;
Part of the verb' to speak' we need,
And yet no words from us proceed.
The annals of the Inquisition
Reveal too well our awful mission ;
In what they call the' good old days,'
Our patronesses won high praise.
It is our business to convey
Men, beasts, and chattels day by day ;
You often bear us near your heart,
And would be loth from us to part,
Though never weary with our speed,
Full often we are tired indeed ;
A tribe of insects, most minute,
Receive from us a name to suit.
Long since we used to condescend
Our aid in cookery to lend.
We guide the vessel in its course,
And multiply your puny force.