Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many. Graham Harry

      Do you recall those bygone days,

      When you received with kindly praise

      My bantling book of Rhyme?

      Praise undeserved, alas! and yet

      How sweet! For, tho' we had not met,

      (Ah! what a waste of time!)

      I could the more enjoy such mercies

      Since I delighted in your verses.

      And when a Poet stoops to smile

      On some one of the rank and file,

      (Inglorious – if not mute,)

      Some groundling bard who craves to climb,

      Like me, the dizzy rungs of Rhyme,

      To reach the Golden Fruit;

      For one in such a situation

      The faintest praise is no damnation.

      Parnassus heights must surely pall;

      For simpler diet do you call,

      Of nectar growing tired?

      These verses to your feet I bring,

      Drawn from an unassuming spring,

      Well-meant – if not inspired;

      O charming Poet's charming daughter,

      Descend and taste my toast and water!

      For you alone these lines I write,

      That, reading them, your brow may light

      Beneath its crown of bays;

      Your eyes may sparkle like a star,

      With friendship, that is dearer far

      Than any breath of praise;

      The which a lucky man possessing

      Can ask no higher human blessing.

      And, though the "salt estranging sea"

      Be widely spread 'twixt you and me,

      We have what makes amends;

      And since I am so glad of you,

      Be glad of me a little, too,

      Because of being friends.

      And, if I earn your approbation,

      Accept my humble dedication.

      The Press may pass my Verses by

      With sentiments of indignation,

      And say, like Greeks of old, that I

      Corrupt the Youthful Generation;

      I am unmoved by taunts like these —

      (And so, I think, was Socrates).

      Howe'er the Critics may revile,

      I pick no journalistic quarrels,

      Quite realizing that my Style

      Makes up for any lack of Morals;

      For which I feel no shred of shame —

      (And Byron would have felt the same).

      I don't intend a Child to read

      These lines, which are not for the Young;

      For, if I did, I should indeed

      Feel fully worthy to be hung.

      (Is "hanged" the perfect tense of "hang"?

      Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)

      O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime,

      By you these Verses may be seen!

      Accept the Moral with the Rhyme,

      And try to gather what I mean.

      But, if you can't, it won't hurt me!

      (And Browning would, I know, agree.)

      Be reassured, I have not got

      The style of Stephen Phillips' heroes,

      Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot,

      Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's!

      (If so, I should not waste my time

      In writing you this sort of rhyme.)

      I strive to paint things as they Are,

      Of Realism the true Apostle;

      All flow'ry metaphors I bar,

      Nor call the homely thrush a "throstle."

      Such synonyms would make me smile.

      (And so they would have made Carlyle.)

      My Style may be at times, I own,

      A trifle cryptic or abstruse;

      In this I do not stand alone,

      And need but mention, in excuse,

      A thousand world-familiar names,

      From Meredith to Henry James.

      From these my fruitless fancy roams

      To seek the Ade of Modern Fable,

      From Doyle's or Hemans' "Stately Ho(l)mes,"

      To t'other of The Breakfast Table;

      Like Galahad, I wish (in vain)

      "My wit were as the wit of Twain!"

      Had I but Whitman's rugged skill,

      (And managed to escape the Censor),

      The Accuracy of a Mill,

      The Reason of a Herbert Spencer,

      The literary talents even

      Of Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen.

      The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen,

      Or Watson's gift of execration,

      The sugar of Le Gallienne,

      Or Algernon's Alliteration.

      One post there is I'd not be lost in,

      – Tho' I might find it most ex-austin'!

      Some day, if I but study hard,

      The public, vanquished by my pen'll

      Acclaim me as a Minor Bard,

      Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell,

      And listen to my lyre a-rippling

      Imperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.

      Were I a syndicate like K.

      Or flippant scholar like Augustine;

      Had I the style of Pater, say,

      Which ev'ryone would put their trust in,

      I'd love (as busy as a squirrel)

      To pate, to kipple, and to birrel.

      So don't ignore me. If you should,

      'Twill touch me to the very heart oh!

      To be as much misunderstood

      As once was Andrea del Sarto;

      Unrecognized to toil away,

      Like Millet – not, of course, Millais.

      And, pray, for Morals do not look

      In this unique agglomeration,

      – This unpretentious little book

      Of Infelicitous Quotation.

      I

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