LITTLE JACK HORNER
Littlé Jack Horner sát in án anglé Meditating.
Before we go farther,
Please clearly understand this is blank verse.
If it reads strangely, and the accent falls
In unexpected places, do not dare
To criticise. Remember once for all,
That I and Milton judge questións like that—
Vide my letters to the daily press.
As for my critics—wholesale ignorance
Were a term far too mild to paint their gross
Unintellectuality. So much said,
I start again.
In a cornér he sat,
Remote from comrades. Resolutely his hand
Clutched a delicious pie. Anon his thumb
From thé pasty depth próduced á curránt.
(Excuse another interruption, but
Observe the beauty of that ultimate line!
With equal ease I might have written it
"Produced a currant from the pasty depth,"
But I—and Milton in his better moments—
Prefer to be original.) In his soul
The obsession of his own superior virtue
Grew and prevailed, till at the last he cried:
"I am a Paragon of Excellence!"
Happy Jack Horner, thus fully convinced
Of his remarkable superiority!
And happy readers, who peruse his tale
Retold in such magnificent blank verse!
Anthony C. Deane.