Page:Rosemary and Pansies.djvu/103



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: 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.