Classic Poem

AM ILK-WHITE Swan, in Aesop's time,
Had got the knack of making rhyme;
All other birds he did excel;
Wrote verses, — yes, — and wrote them well:
Praised was his genius, and his parts —
All wondered how he reached the arts:
Except some Geese, in neighbouring brook;
Yet even they admired his look,
And grudged each feather in his wing;
But, envious, hiss'd whene'er he'd sing!
His sonnets they denounced as satire ,
His lyric pleasantries, ill-nature!

One day these Geese most pertly squall'd,
" Cygnet! " — for so the Swan was call'd —
" Cygnet, — why will you thus abuse
" Our patience with your doggerel muse?
" Not only you offend our ears,
" But you assail our characters!
" Blush, and no longer do amiss. "
The critics ended with a hiss.

Erect the Cygnet raised his crest,
And thus the silly Geese address'd:
" I know not any of your tribe —
" Why, then, d'ye feel my jest or gibe?
" Fools ever — ('tis a certain rule)
" Think they're the butts of ridicule;
" As if they so important were,
" No other theme the muse could cheer.
" Begone! you but yourselves expose,
" When thus your folly you disclose:
" Know this, and then your gabbling cease —
" Swans like my verse; but YOU are — Geese! "