Here I Sit with my Paper, my Pen and my Ink

Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink, / First of this thing, and that thing, and t'other thing think; / Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind, / That the sense or the subject I never can find: / This word is wrong placed,-no regard to the sense, / The present and future, instead of past tense, / Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore, / I think I shall never attempt to write more, / With patience I then my thoughts must arraign, / Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, / Like them too must wait in due patience and thought, / Or else my fine works will all come to nought. / My wit too's so copious, it flows like a river, / But disperses its waters on black and white never; / Like smoke it appears independent and free, / But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee- / Then at length all my patience entirely lost, / My paper and pens in the fire are tossed; / But come, try again-you must never despair, / Our Murray's or Entick's are not all so rare, / Implore their assistance-they'll come to your aid, / Perform all your business without being paid, / They'll tell you the present tense, future and past, / Which should come first, and which should come last, / This Murray will do-then to Entick repair, / To find out the meaning of any word rare. / This they friendly will tell, and ne'er make you blush, / With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush! / Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put, / Not minding the if's, the be's, and the but, / Then read it all over, see how it will run, / How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun, / Your writings may then with old Socrates vie, / May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie, / May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage. / The pattern or satire to all of the age; / But stop-a mad author I mean not to turn, / Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn, / Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined, / My letters may make some slight food for the mind; / That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart, / In all the warm language that flows from the heart. / Hark! futurity calls! it loudly complains, / It bids me step forward and just hold the reins, / My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, / Such as I fear can be made but by few- / Of writers this age has abundance and plenty, / Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty, / Three score of them wits who all sharply vie, / To try what odd creature they best can belie, / A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write, / And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,] / One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire, / And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire, / T'other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, / And just like a cobbler the old writings mend, / The twenty are those who for pulpits indite, / And pore over sermons all Saturday night. / And now my good friends-who come after I mean, / As I ne'er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. / Or like cobblers at mending I never did try, / Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie; / As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest, / So here I believe the matter must rest. - / I've heard your complaint-my answer I've made, / And since to your calls all the tribute I've paid, / Adieu my good friend; pray never despair, / But grammar and sense and everything dare, / Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free, / Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, / Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense, / But read it all over and make it out sense. / What a tiresome girl! -pray soon make an end, / Else my limited patience you'll quickly expend. / Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try- / So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.

JANUARY, 1810.