Classic Poem

William does thy frigid soul,
The charms of poetry deny,
And think thy heart beyond controul,
Of each Parnassian Deity?

This I suspect from that cold look,
Quenching like ice Apollo's fire,
With which each vagrant verse you took,
When offer'd from my humble lyre.

Not that in truth I mean to say,
I ever had a lyre — not I —
Rhymers you know have got a way,
To Tell a bumper , alias lie . —

— I love quotations — Dr Gibbs —
Or some one else perhaps — has said,
— Poets have leave to publish fibs,
And t'is a portion of their trade —

But to return — ti's wrong to say,
That I should not have leave to write,
My maxim is — write while it's day, —
For soon, forsooth it will be night,

That is — poor Ralph must versify,
Through College like a thousand drums
But when well through then then oh my
The dark dull night of Business comes

While this my letter you peruse,
Frown no long-faced apostrophe ,
Dare not to blame the wayward muse,
Nor scowl the scroflous brow at me —