True Diffidence
MY boy, you may take it from me,That of all the afflictions accurstWith which a man’s saddledAnd hampered and addled,A diffident nature’s the worst.Though clever as clever can be—A Crichton of early romance—You must stir it and stump it,And blow your own trumpet,Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.
Now take, for example, my case:I’ve a bright intellectual brain—In all London cityThere’s no one so witty—I’ve thought so again and again.I’ve a highly intelligent face—My features cannot be denied—But, whatever I try, sir,I fail in—and why, sir?I’m modesty personified!
As a poet, I’m tender and quaint—I’ve passion and fervour and grace—From Ovid and HoraceTo Swinburne and Morris,They all of them take a back place.Then I sing and I play and I paint;Though none are accomplished as I,To say so were treason:You ask me the reason?I’m diffident, modest, and shy!