I knew a man, who lived down South; He thought this maxim to defy; He looked a Gifthorse in the Mouth; The Gifthorse bit him in the Eye! And, while the steed enjoyed his bite, My Southern friend mislaid his sight.
Now, had this foolish man, that day, Observed the Gifthorse in the Heel, It might have kicked his brains away, But that's a loss he would not feel; Because you see (need I explain?) My Southern friend had got no brain.
When anyone to you presents A poodle, or a pocketknife, A set of Ping-pong instruments, A banjo or a Lady-wife, 'Tis churlish, as I understand, To grumble that they're second-hand.
And he who termed Ingratitude As "worser nor a servant's tooth" Was evidently well imbued With all the elements of Truth; (While he who said "Uneasy lies The tooth that wears a crown" was wise).
"One must be poor," George Eliot said, "To know the luxury of giving;" So too one really should be dead To realize the joy of living. (I'd sooner be—I don't know which— I'd like to be alive and rich!)
This book may be a Gifthorse too, And one you surely ought to prize; If so, I beg you, read it through With kindly and uncaptious eyes, Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan, And this one doesn't rhyme!
Aftword.
'Tis done! We reach the final page, With feelings of relief, I'm certain; And there arrives at such a stage, The moment to ring down the curtain. (This metaphor is freely taken From Shakespeare—or perhaps from Bacon.)
The Book perused, our Future brings A plethora of blank to-morrows, When memories of Happier Things Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows. (I trust you recognize this line As being Tennyson's, not mine.)
My verses may indeed be few, But are they not, to quote the poet, "The sweetest things that ever grew Beside a human door"? I know it. (What an inhuman door would be, Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.)