But with haste like all the Yankees, wrote a book about my plays;
Wrote that it was Francis Bacon who had written all my plays,
Wrote and wrote, and nothing more.
Then the Yankee scribe beguiling all my sad soul into smiling
By the queer and strange arrangement of the nonsense that he wrote.
“Though thy pate’s unshorn, unshaven, thou,” I said, must be a craven,
Ghastly, grim, and lengthy Yankee, wandering from Atlantic’s shore,
“Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Baconian shore?”
“Donnelly, and nothing more.”
Then the Yankee creature, holding Bacon’s bust, spoke only