Backblock Ballads and Later Verses/The Bore

by C. J. Dennis

The Bore

Ah, prithee, friend, if them hast aught
    Of love and kind regard for me,
Tell not yon bore the stories droll
    That yesternight I told to thee.

Nor tell him stories of thine own,
    Nor chestnut of antiquitee;
Nor quip nor crank, nor anything
    If thou hast aught of love for me.

For sense of humour hath he none,
    No gift for telling tales hath he;
Yet thinks himself, within his heart,
    A wit of wondrous drolleree.

And in the golden summer-time
    With ear a-cock he roameth free,
Collecting quibble, quip, and crank;
    And anecdotes collecteth he.

Then in the dreary winter nights
    He sits him down 'neath my rooftree,
And in a coarse, ungentle voice
    He fires those stories back at me.

He hath no wit for telling tales,
    He laughs where ne'er a point there be;
But sits and murders honest yarns,
    And claims them as his propertee.

And when he laughs I rock and roar,
    And vow he'll be the death o' me.
For, mark thou, friend, my martyrdom—
    He is a creditor to me.

Ay, prithee, friend, if thou hast love
    For goodly jests or care for me,
Then tell him not the merry tale
    That yesternight I told to thee.