If you are a bowman I'll be shot,
From a narrow chest you do not sigh;
No quiver have you, and no big bull's eye;
Yet with your long bassoon so deep,
Through passages many you're heard to sweep:
Some of them light, and some of them dark,
And, whatever their measure, you hit your mark.
Platt! Platt! I can't stand that—
To call you Platt is both rude and raw,
Just as if you were a man of straw,