THE RHYMER'S PETITION TO THE CRITIC
Herewith my little book of rhymes I send,
For you to exercise your critic skill on't:
Do as yon will with it—or praise or rend—
'Tis yours to work whate'er may be your will on't:
Bat one small favour I would fain entreat,
One little mercy prithee deign to show it—
Don't style me (be your verdict sour or sweet),
A Minor Poet.
Ah, yes! I know them—all that brilliant band
Whose works are issued from the street of Vigo,
'Neath Messrs. Lane or Mathews' fostering hand,
Whose tomes when out of print so very high go:[1]
Yet since they're mostly branded with the brand
Of minor minstrelsy, I'd fain forego it—
I mean the honour with those bards to stand,
A Minor Poet.
Poor Shakespeare Biggs! I knew him in his prime,
When flushed with hope the midnight oil he wasted,
Until at last came forth his book of rhyme
And he to read the critics' verdicts hasted.
- ↑ These verses were written some years ago, when there was a temporary "boom" in minor minstrelsy. Most of the volumes which fetched such high prices then are to he had, I fancy, cheaply enough now.
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