Classic Poem

I.

Hail, Plural Unit! who wouldst be
A Junto o'er my Muse and me,
With dogmas to control us;
Hail mystic WE! grand Next-to-None!
Large body corporate of One!
Important OMNES, Solus!

II.

First Person Singular! pray why
Impregnate thus the Pronoun I?
Of madness what a tissue!
To write as if with passion wild
Thou oft hadst got Thyself with child,
And thou wert Self and Issue!

III.

Thy voice, which counterfeits alone
A score of voices in its own,
Awhile takes in the many:
Thus a bad one-pound note is passed
For twenty shillings, and at last
Turns out not worth a penny.

IV.

'Tis well for Thee no laws of thine
Can crush vile followers of the Nine.
Thou liv'st upon the sinners;
And if all poets left off writing
Through thy anonymous inditing,
Why, thou must leave off dinners.

V.

For Thou couldst ne'er turn poet sure,
Laurels or luncheons to procure —
Witness thy present calling;
Else why not write thyself a name
So very humble, e'en in fame,
As mine which thou art mauling?

VI.

Yet hold. Thou mayst on Pindus' heights
Have far out-soared my lowly flights —
No; that's a thought I'll smother:
The meanest bard among the mean,
Can he thus skulk behind a screen
And try to stab a brother?

VII.

But come, one moment leave thy pen
Stuck in thy gall-bottle, and then
Smooth o'er thy forehead's furrow.
Let's chat. Where got'st thou thy employ?
Art thou of Dublin city joy?
Or bonny Edinburgh?

VIII.

Or art John Bull, in garret crammed?
" Spirit of health, or goblin damned? "
Be something for thy credit.
Perhaps thou'rt he who (as they say)
Cut up the last successful play,
And never saw nor read it?

IX.

Be what thou wilt; when all is done,
To me thou'rt (like Thyself) All One .
Thou'rt welcome still to flog on;
For till one addled egg's a brood,
Or twenty WEs a multitude,
My Muse and I will jog on.

X.

Now shouldst thou praise me after all,
Though that indeed were comical,
What honour could I pin to't?
If porridge were my only cheer,
Thy praise or blame must both appear
Two tasteless chips thrown into't.

XI.

Then, WE, shake hands, and part! No breach,
No difference 'twixt us I beseech!
Although our business varies:
Thine is detraction, mine is jest —
Which occupation pray is best,
Thy spite or my " Vagaries? "