head Putney composes a dirge; Edwin anathematizes politely in various lingos; Davidson ruminates hard over a Ballad of Hell; Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll; I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice, Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court! Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamor of Carlton Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump!

Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, Not all unmingled with a sad regret, That little penny blast of purple thunder, You issued in the Westminster Gazette; The Editor describes it as a sonnet; I wish to make a few remarks upon it. Never, O craven England, nevermore Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim! So ran the lines, and left me very sore, For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: Even thus early in your ample song I felt that something must be really wrong. But when I learned that our ignoble nation Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, Propping, according to your information, Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne, O then I scattered to the wind my fears, And nearly went and joined the Volunteers. But just in time the thought occurred to me That England commonly commits her course To men as good at heart as even we And possibly much richer in resource; That we had better mind our own affairs And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. It further seemed a work uncommon light For one like you, a casual civilian, To order half a hemisphere to fight And slaughter one another by the million, While you yourself, a paper Galahad, Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad. The days are gone when sword and poet's pen One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; When Taillefer in face of Harold's men Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field, And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell. The days are gone when troubadours by dozens Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, The Girl I left behind Me, on parade; They often used to rattle off a ballad in The intervals of punishing the Saladin. In later times, of course I know there's Byron, Who by his report could play the man; I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, And brandishing a useful yataghan; Though never going altogether strong, he Managed at least to die at Missolonghi. No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, Though doubtless under many martial bonnets Brave heads there be that harbor the distinct Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; But 

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