THE LAUREATE'S LATEST.
The "town" ran off to the Globe one night,
For a play was played then from the Laureate's pen;
But they soon said, "How dare he?" and kicked up a "row,"
And pooh-poohed the drama—and serve it right,
For that it deserved it I think you'll allow.
Yea, they jeered at "The Promise of May,"—of May—
Annoyed at "The Promise of May."
But stay; we'd better, maybe, leave that song,
Yea, leave its "hen," its "fox," its "cat," and "cheese"—
For where is he who can burlesque burlesque?
And this strange playwright, mystic, wonderful,
Loved stage plays with a love that was his doom!
For lo! this "Promise" played by Bernardbeere
Has gained, at least, this very doubtful fame—
Hereafter, through all ages—"'Twas no good!"
The critics, o'er its threadbare plot,
Ere long grew "crusty"—one and all.
Said they, "'Twill fail; such awful rot
Will on the public quickly pall.
The leading character is strange,
The rest are all a prosy batch,
The audience they'll never catch—
The programme they must shortly change.
"A. T.," they said, "'tis weak and dreary.
A lot of bosh," they said.
"It makes the audience aweary;
Soon it will be dead!"
Besides the forced and feeble plot,
Full soon did men discover
The scientific "snob" was not
A pleasant sort of lover.
Of speech he had an awful flow—
Which Tennyson thought clever—
And he soliloquised as though
He meant to jaw for ever!
And then unto the critics and reviewers,
Irresponsible critics and reviewers,
Thus, Alfred (not in metre of Catullus—
But more in "In Memoriam" sort of measure):
"The critics prattle on amain—
That envious and grumbling race
Declare my play is commonplace,
And rather full of chaff than grain.
"I hold it true—although they bawl,
And I may heavy find the cost—
'Tis better to produce a 'frost'
Than ne'er to write a play at all."
And then unto the Queen (s'berry) he hymned
This little lay; for he, the noble "Q.,"
Cried out at Edgar's "Maxims of the Mud."
Then Alfred and fair Bernardbeere were glad,
And rested well content that all was well.
"You jeered, O, "Q," and you were bold
To treat my great prose-play with mirth;
But your advertisement was worth
No end of praise and lots of gold.
"For now the town will haste to see
My 'Edgar' that made you so ill;
And so they'll keep it in the bill
Since that advertisement from thee."
* * * * *
Shall it not be scorn for me to harp upon this mouldy thing?
For surely in a week or two it will have taken wing.
"Weakness to be wroth with weakness"—that this play is weak, 'tis plain.
I have seen much better dramas founded by a shallower brain.
From the programme of the Globe, then, sweep this foolish thing away.
Better fifty Meritt-mixtures than this sickly, stupid play!
CARADOS.
The Referee, November 19, 1882.