Envoi.
Smokers! who doubt or con or pro,
And ye who dare to drink, take heed!
And see in smoke a friendly foe:—
A slave is each man to the weed.
Brander Matthews.
THE BALLADE OF ADAPTATION.
The native drama's sick and dying,
So say the cynic critic crew:
The native dramatist is crying—
"Bring me the paste! Bring me the glue!
Bring me the pen, and scissors, too!
Bring me the works of E. Augier!
Bring me the works of V. Sardou!
I am the man to write a play!"
For want of plays the stage is sighing,
Such is the song the wide world through:
The native dramatist is crying—
"Behold the comedies I brew!
Behold my dramas not a few!
On German farces I can prey,
And English novels I can hew;
I am the man to write a play!"
There is, indeed, no use denying
That fashion's turned from old to new:
The native dramatist is crying—
"Molière, good-bye! Shakespeare adieu!
I do not think so much of you.
Although not bad, you've had your day,
And for the present you won't do.
I am the man to write a play!"
Envoi.
Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue,
A native dramatist, I say
To every cynic critic, "Pooh!
I am the man to write a play!"