Alas! he from that hour ne'er smiled again,
But took to drink and evil ways—such woe it
Caused him when branded with that mark of Cain
'A Minor Poet.'
Call me a scribbler of the lowest class,
Say that in merest commonplace I revel,
Insinuate that I'm an utter ass,
Unable e'en to reach bard Tapper's level;
But spare, oh! spare me one last crowning jeer—
Say I'm but fit to plough a field, or hoe it,
But, oh! don't say that I'm—ah word of fear!
A Minor Poet.
1890?
88
