Poem: The Business-Like Bard by Edward Dyson

Some scribes their tinkling verses string
   In sweating diligence;
To charm a maiden's ear they sing --
   I question not their sense,
Nor gibe I at the wanton waste,
   But let them still adore.
I serve no damsel fair and chaste,
But weave my rhymes to please the taste
Of some grim, goggled, hairy-faced,
   Prosaic editor.

Some poets in pursuit of fame
   Burn midnight kerosene,
Grow pale and famished at the game;
   But diligent and keen
Their tortued syllables they ile,
   And stanzas polish o'er,
That Glory may be theirs a while,
I care not on whom Glory smile
If with my verses I beguile
   The gloomy editor.

There is a bard who trims his line
   For sour Prosterity.
He eats to-morrow's bread, drinks wine
   Of Nineteen-twenty-three.
The mistress he pursues, poor boy,
   Is always on before --
Anticipation is his joy.
My whole endeavor I employ
To be accepted by some coy,
   Concurrent editor.

First published in The Bulletin, 15 November 1917

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on September 1, 2007 8:52 AM.

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