So until they’ve got tired of her face, boys,
And a rival more touzled or curled,
Drives her home to her own proper place, boys—
I’m the dullest dull dog in the world!
Punch, January 7, 1882.
——:o:——
A correspondent writes from the United States, “I send you below an attempt I made twenty-three years ago to parody an illegitimate poem of Kingsley’s, and to show that even a foreigner having a moderate familiarity with Scott’s novels, can write as good a piece of bad Scotch poetry as an Englishman:—
New York Correspondence.
New York City, June 21, 1862.
Dear Press,—I saw in your Poet’s Corner some time since a poem by Charles Kingsley about a beast termed an Oubit. What is it? I was vexed at the poem. What business has Kingsley to be writing fraudulent Scotch poetry? He can’t do it well. It makes him look as ridiculous as the old philosopher in the story, trying to put his toe in his mouth, because he saw a baby do it. Besides, anybody can do it as well as Kingsley. I can. Exempli gratia: