THE POETASTERS: A DRAMATIC CANTATA.
Chorus of Poetasters.
AN itch of rhymes has seized the times
Till every cobbler's turned a poet,
And he who taught the secret ought
In justice to be made to know it.
Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, vast odes and epics vaster,
And post them to the Master, Master, Master.
Bards, pour your benison on Baron Tennyson,
Who vulgarised the art of rhyming,
And set the twaddle that fills each noddle
In endless jingle-jangle chiming:
Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, each puling poetaster,
And inundate the Master, Master, Master.
Recitative and Aria: Lord Tennyson.
Bards, idle bards, I know not what ye mean!
Words powerfully expressive of despair
Rise to my lips and flash from out my eyes
In looking o'er the reams each post-bag yields.
But, mark me, I'll return the stuff no more.
When morning sees the groaning board
With my baronial breakfast spread—
With bacon crisp and snow-white bread,
And fragrant coffee freshly poured.
I greet with joy the cheerful sight,
When, hark! there comes the postman's knock:
I thrill as with a lightning shock
And bid adieu to appetite.
For song and stave and madrigal
Make dark to me the opening day,
And sonnet, ode, and roundelay
Sink on my spirit like a pall.
And lunch-time brings another host,
At each delivery they throng,
While any hour may bring along
Three tragedies by parcels-post;
And twelve-book epics ton on ton,
Each with its laudatory ode
Of drivelling dedications, load
The vans of Carter, Paterson.
I can nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep
In peace; I vow that from to-day
I'll have them carted straight away
Unopened to the rubbish-heap.
Call in the dustman!—Lo! 'tis done!
The contract signed, I breathe again.
Come, load at once thy lingering wain
Blest henchman of oblivion!
Finale: Chorus of Poetasters.
Not return nor e'en acknowledge!
Dares he treat our verses thus?
Knows he not the might malignant
Of a poetaster's "cuss?"
Dreads he not our "spiteful letters,"
Epigrams, satiric skits?
Let him learn that would-be poets
Also shine as would-be wits.
Who is he to scorn our verses?
British taxpayers are we;
Is he not the Poet Laureate?
Don't we stand his salary?
Straightway we'll transfer allegiance
To some other, blander bard,
Whom no paltry peerage renders
Uppish, arrogant, and hard.
Mr. Browning, for example,
Won't treat brother poets thus.
Though we may not understand him,
Doubtless he'll appreciate us;
He'll return with mild laudation
Our effusions every one.
Poetasters, snap your fingers
At the played-out Tennyson!
W. A.
St. James's Gazette, June 24, 1884.
The Reverend Charles Wolfe.
Since the June and July parts were published containing parodies on "The Burial of Sir John Moore," Truth has had a Parody Competition with that poem as the selected original. The Editor of Truth published no less than twenty-four parodies, many of which were very amusing.
Some of the best are given complete, with a few extracts from the remainder:—