Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/53

Rh So easy ’tis to make a rhyme, That did the world but know it, Your coachman might Parnassus climb, Your butler be a poet.

Then, oh, how charming it would be If, when in haste hysteric You called the page, you learned that he Was grappling with a lyric.

Or else what rapture it would yield, When cook sent up the salad, To find within its depths concealed A touching little ballad.

Or if for tea and toast you yearned, What joy to find upon it The chambermaid had coyly laid A palpitating sonnet.

Your baker could the fashion set; Your butcher might respond well; With every tart a triolet, With every chop a rondel.

Your tailor’s bill… well, I’ll be blowed! Dear chap! I never knowed him… He’s gone and written me an ode, Instead of what I owed him.