How I have labored, night and day, Just like the hero of a novel, To drive the hungry wolf away From my baronial hovel, To keep the bailiffs from my home, By finishing this bulky tome.
To such a trying mental strain My intellect is far from fitted, Tho' if I had an ounce more brain I should be quite half-witted, And when I wander in my mind I am most difficult to find.
The sort of life for which I care Is one combining Peace and Plenty With _laisser aller_, _laisser faire_, And _dolce far niente_. (The heart of ev'ry Bridge-fiend jumps: _Dolce_. 'tis sweet to make "No Trumps. ")
I shrink from work in any shape, -- Too clearly do these pages show it, -- But work is what one can't escape And be a Minor Poet; And critics I may well defy To find a minor bard than I.
I ought to live out 'Frisco way, Where working is considered silly, As Greeley (Horace) used to say, -- Or was it Collier (Willie)? -- "Go West, young man" (I understand), "Go West and blow up with the land!"
Were I as full of zeal and fun As Balzac, who could drudge so gaily, Or diligent as Peter Dunne, I might accomplish daily An ode of Pleasure or of Passion In Ella Wheeler Wilcox fashion;
But, as it is, I sit and toil, Consuming time and ink and curses And pints of precious midnight oil To perpetrate these verses. If _writing_ them be dull indeed, Alas! what must they be to _read_!
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