Sir Walter Raleigh

I was a Poet! But I did not know it, Neither did my Mother, Nor my Sister nor my Brother. The Rich were not aware of it; The Poor took no care of it. The Reverend Mr. Drewitt Never knew it. The High did not suspect it; The Low could not detect it. Aunt Sue Said it was obviously untrue. Uncle Ned Said I was off my head: (This from a Colonial Was really a good testimonial.) Still everybody seemed to think That genius owes a good deal to drink. So that is how I am not a poet now, And why My inspiration has run dry. It is no sort of use To cultivate the Muse If vulgar people Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple. I am merely apologizing For the lack of the surprising In what I write To-night. I am quite well-meaning, But a lot of things are always intervening Between What I mean And what it is said I had in my head. It is all very puzzling. Uncle Ned Says Poets need muzzling. He might Be right. Good-night!

Nature, that washed her hands in milk, And had forgot to dry them, Instead of earth took snow and silk, At love's request to try them, If she a mistress could compose To please love's fancy out of those.

Her eyes he would should be of light, A violet breath, and lips of jelly; Her hair not black, nor overbright, And of the softest down her belly; As for her inside he'd have it Only of wantonness and wit.

At love's entreaty such a one Nature made, but with her beauty She hath framed a heart of stone; So as Love, by ill destiny, Must die for her whom nature gave him Because her darling would not save him.

But time, which nature doth despise And rudely gives her love the lie, Makes hope a fool, and sorrow wise, His hands do neither wash nor dry; But being made of steel and rust, Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.

The light, the belly, lips, and breath, He dims, discolors, and destroys; With those he feeds but fills not death, Which sometimes were the food of joys. Yea, time doth dull each lively wit, And dries all wantonness with it.

Oh, cruel time, which takes in trust Our youth, or joys, and all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave When we have wandered all our ways Shuts up the story of our days.

Your dog is not a dog of grace; He does not wag the tail or beg; He bit Miss Dickson in the face; He bit a Bailie in the leg.

What tragic choices such a dog Presents to visitor or friend! Outside there is the Glasgow fog; Within, a hydrophobic end.

Yet some relief even terror brings, For when our life is cold and gray We waste our strength on little things, And fret our puny souls away.

A snarl! A scruffle round the room! A sense that Death is drawing near! And human creatures reassume The elemental robe of fear.

So when my colleague makes his moan Of careless cooks, and warts, and debt, -- Enlarge his views, restore his tone, And introduce him to your Pet!

Quod Raleigh.

What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, Where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.