Classic Poem

I am not a great poet, I own;
Nathless my own praise I would sing
In a humble and delicate tone,
And yet with a confident swing.
Pray spare me your pitiless fling,
Nor say I am going too far.
I claim but this one little thing.
I have never made " a " rhyme with " r. "

My lines are with nonsense upblown
Till they float without plumage or wing,
And they drop to the earth like a stone
When transfixed by the critical sting.
I have sung on the beauties of spring,
And on themes which most readers debar,
But, in all of my sad maundering,
I have never made " a " rhyme with " r. "

'Tis a license that scribblers, high flown,
Bostonese into usage would bring;
But it merits naught else save a groan,
For it gives to their work a false ring.
Of " Maria " and " fire " they may ding,
And may warble of " vista " and " star, "
But this be the stone in my sling:
I have never made " a " rhyme with " r. "

envoy.

Dear Princess, I own I'm no king;
Among rhymers I'm hardly at par;
And yet to your favor I cling;
I have never made " a " rhyme with " r. "