Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many

Author of Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes Ballads of the Boer War The Baby's Baedeker

Copyright, 1903, by Robert Howard Russell Published May, 1903.
Do you recall those bygone days, When you received with kindly praise My bantling book of Rhyme? Praise undeserved, alas! and yet How sweet! For, tho' we had not met, (Ah! what a waste of time!) I could the more enjoy such mercies Since I delighted in your verses.
And when a Poet stoops to smile On some one of the rank and file, (Inglorious—if not mute,) Some groundling bard who craves to climb, Like me, the dizzy rungs of Rhyme, To reach the Golden Fruit; For one in such a situation The faintest praise is no damnation.
Parnassus heights must surely pall; For simpler diet do you call, Of nectar growing tired? These verses to your feet I bring, Drawn from an unassuming spring, Well-meant—if not inspired; O charming Poet's charming daughter, Descend and taste my toast and water!
For you alone these lines I write, That, reading them, your brow may light Beneath its crown of bays; Your eyes may sparkle like a star, With friendship, that is dearer far Than any breath of praise; The which a lucky man possessing Can ask no higher human blessing.
And, though the salt estranging sea Be widely spread 'twixt you and me, We have what makes amends; And since I am so glad of you, Be glad of me a little, too, Because of being friends. And, if I earn your approbation, Accept my humble dedication.
H. G.
The Press may pass my Verses by With sentiments of indignation, And say, like Greeks of old, that I Corrupt the Youthful Generation; I am unmoved by taunts like these— (And so, I think, was Socrates).
Howe'er the Critics may revile, I pick no journalistic quarrels, Quite realizing that my Style Makes up for any lack of Morals; For which I feel no shred of shame— (And Byron would have felt the same).
I don't intend a Child to read These lines, which are not for the Young; For, if I did, I should indeed Feel fully worthy to be hung. (Is hanged the perfect tense of hang ? Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)