Across the seas he made his pile,
In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,
You have to exercise some guile
To do the very slightest good;
But he kept doing good by stealth,
And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.
And now his private hobby 'tis
To meet a starving people's need
By making gifts of libraries
To those who never learnt to read;
Rich mental banquets he provides
For folks with famishing insides.
In Education's hallowed name
He pours his opulent libations;
His vast deserted Halls of Fame
Increase the gaiety of nations.
But still the slums are plague-infested,
The hospitals remain congested.
. . . . . .
Carnegie, should your kindly eye
This foolish book of verses meet,
Please order an immense supply,
To make your libraries complete,
And register its author's name
Within your princely Halls of Fame!
King Cophetua
O sing of King Cophetua
I am indeed unwilling,
For none of his adventures are
Particularly thrilling;
Nor, as I hardly need to mention,
Am I addicted to invention.
The story of his roving eye,
You must already know it,
Since it has been narrated by
Lord Tennyson, the poet;
I could a moving tale unfold,
But it has been so often told.