By a Scotch Bard and English Reviewer.
(TENNYSON)
I am two brothers with one face,
So which is the real man who can trace?
(My wrongs are raging inside of me.)
Here are some poets and they sell,
Therefore revenge becomes me well.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)
Of course you know it's a burning shame,
But of my last books the press makes game!