THE WORTH OF VERSE.
AIR—"The Birth of Verse."
Wild thoughts which occupy the brain,
Vague prophecies which fill the ear,
Dim perturbation, precious pain,
A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,—
These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:—
Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!
Some say no definite thought there is
In my full flatulence of sound.
Let National Observers quiz
(H-NL-Y won't have it. I'll be bound!)
Envy! O trumpery, O MORRIS!
Could JUVENAL jealous be of HORACE?
I know the chambers of my soul
Are filled with laudatory airs,
Such as the salaried bard should troll
When he the Laureate laurels wears.
And I am he who opened Hades,
To harmless parsons and to ladies!
For I can "moralise my song"
More palpably than Mr. POPE;
And I can touch the toiling throng:
There is small doubt of that, I hope.
I've piped for him who ploughs the furrows,
And stood for the Carmarthen Boroughs.
I mayn't be strong, inspired, complete,
But on the Liberal goose I'm sound.
And I can count my (rhythmic) feet
With any Pegasus around.
I witch all women, and some men,
GLADSTONE I've drawn, and written "Gwen."
If these be not sufficient claims,
The worth of Verse is vastly small.
I've called him various pretty names,
The honoured Master of us all;
"His place is with the Immortals." Yes!
But I could fill it here, I guess!
His "chaste white Muse" could not object,
For mine is white, and awfully chaste.
Now ALGERNON has no respect
For purity and public taste.
EDWIN is given to allegory.
Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!!
He ceased. Great PUNCHIUS rubbed his eagle beak.
And said, "I think we'll take the rest next week!"
Inexperienced Fred. "NOT EXACTLY 'GOOD,'—BUT I THINK I'VE LET OFF ABOUT A HUNDRED CARTRIDGES."
Experienced Sportsman. "NOT SO BAD. S'POSE YOU MUST HAVE 'LET OFF' AN EQUAL NUMBER OF PARTRIDGES!"