Part 2

When anyone to you presents A poodle, or a pocketknife, A set of Ping-pong instruments, A banjo or a Lady-wife, 'Tis churlish, as I understand, To grumble that they're second-hand.

And he who termed Ingratitude As "worser nor a servant's tooth" Was evidently well imbued With all the elements of Truth; (While he who said "Uneasy lies The tooth that wears a crown" was wise).

"One must be poor," George Eliot said, "To know the luxury of giving;" So too one really should be dead To realize the joy of living. (I'd sooner be--I don't know which-- I'd _like_ to be alive and rich!)

_This_ book may be a Gifthorse too, And one you surely ought to prize; If so, I beg you, read it through With kindly and uncaptious eyes, Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan, And this one doesn't rhyme!

_Aftword._

'Tis done! We reach the final page, With feelings of relief, I'm certain; And there arrives at such a stage, The moment to ring down the curtain. (This metaphor is freely taken From Shakespeare--or perhaps from Bacon.)

The Book perused, our Future brings A plethora of blank to-morrows, When memories of Happier Things Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows. (I trust you recognize this line As being Tennyson's, not mine.)

My verses may indeed be few, But are they not, to quote the poet, "The sweetest things that ever grew Beside a human door"? I know it. (What an _in_human door would be, Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.)

'Twas one of my most cherished dreams To write a Moral Book some day; What says the Bard? "The best laid schemes Of Mice and Men gang aft agley!" (The Bard here mentioned, by the bye, Is Robbie Burns, of course--not I.)

And tho' my pen records each thought As swift as the phonetic Pitman, Morality is not my "forte," O Camarados! (_vide_ Whitman) And, like the Porcupine, I still Am forced to ply a fretful quill.

We may be Master of our Fate, (As Henley was inspired to mention) Yet am I but the Second Mate Upon the ss. "Good Intention"; For me the course direct is lacking-- I have to do a deal of tacking.

To seek for Morals here's a task Of which you well may be despairing; "What has become of them?" you ask, They've given us the slip--like Waring. "Look East!" said Browning once, and I Would make a similar reply.

Look East, where in a garret drear, The Author works, without cessation, Composing verses for a mere- ly nominal remuneration; And, while he has the strength to write 'em, Will do so still--_ad infinitum_.

FINIS.

Transcriber's Notes:

The words 'bo-num' and 'mere-ly' were retained hyphenated at the ends of lines to match the printed edition and maintain the poetical intent of the author.

Changed 'Heidsick' to 'Heidsieck.'