To Correspondents
MY Postman, though I fear thy tread,And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,My mortal foe is much severer,—The Unknown Correspondent, who,With undefatigable pen,And nothing in the world to do,Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder’s EndThey write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,The people of the Shetlands sendNo inconsiderable quota;They write for autographs; in vain,In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,They write that Allan QuatermainIs not at all the book for Brora.
They write to say that they have metThis writer ‘at a garden party,And though’ this writer ‘may forget,’Their recollection’s keen and hearty.‘And will you praise in your reviewsA novel by our distant cousin?’These letters from Provincial BluesAssail us daily by the dozen!
O friends with time upon your hands,O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,O poets out of many lands,O youths and maidens under twenty,Seek out some other wretch to bore,Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,And leave me to my dusty loreAnd my unprofitable labours!