Classic Poem

My little book, I envy thee,
For few doth Fortune favour so,
It might have been thy destiny
Some sleepy relative to know,
Or like proverbial lamb to go
For slaughter of some critic fang:
But thine, secure from fool and foe —
To line the shelves of Andrew Lang

Small is my hope, small book, that he
For whom I write this ex dono
Shall feel the beating heart in thee,
And cheer us on, my book; ah no!
We are presumptuous dreaming so:
Rather he 'll bid us both — go hang!
Or even hotly bid us go
To — line the shelves of Andrew Lang

Yet, little book, I do not see
That such a fate need cause thee woe,
For very sweet 'twould seem to me
To line his sweet seraglio
Of bouquins , nestling row on row;
Indeed 'twould bring no pain or pang,
But rather set my heart aglow
To line the shelves of Andrew Lang.

O bards of unbought balladry,
Not all in vain it was you sang,
Seems it not more than £ s d
To line the shelves of — A NDREW Lang ?