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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 13

[poem]

Oh mighty Critic of the mighty "Times,"
Great self-created Supreme Judge of Rhymes,
Spare, spare thy lash, a little while be calm—
While my poor Muse performs a low salaam.
Ay Muse of mine be humble and be meek—
The "Times" is great, and thou, alas, art weak;
The "Times" is powerful—avoid the rage
Of its farseeing potent Critic Sage.
I've felt his Bullock-hide—(nay do not laugh—
Can't Bullock-hide be taken from a Calf?)
Let's draw it mild, my Muse, and use soft phrases,
When next we tune our 'Harp' perhaps he'll praise us.
Here goes again. Oh wise Provincial Daniel
I cower before thee like a very spaniel;
Thou art a great authority no doubt,
In Poetry, for "Wordsworth" you can spout,—
You must be in 'Lake Literature,' well read,
I trust Sir that you likewise are well fed.
I don't mean to offend you, but you know
A Journal of "The Times" stamp pays so low
That men like you, who use the "pruning knife"
Upon its staff, just earn the staff of life,
Or little more; but then, 'tween you and me,
There's chances from such minstrels as "K. B"
I blame you not if disappointment lurks
Within your breast. An extra pint of Burke's
Goes rather high this sultry weather, then
A hungry Critic has a frightful pen.
page 4 My theme is much too simple, 'Exiles' lays
Are subjects far below thy soaring gaze;
Such stuff may go down with the vulgar Crowd,
Thy mind goes up o'ershadowed by a Cloud.
My "easy handled metre" seems to tease you—
I've tried another measure now to please you,
I've jogged along, Sir, in the "well-known rut"
Ah, Mister Critic, that's a dreadful cut.
Exiles are 'Nuisances,' wheree'r you ramble
One meets your gaze, viae Byron and Campbell,
And countless "herds of versifiers" more
Have togged him out, in short, he is a bore.
His 'Reveries' and 'Laments' in foreign climes,
Are far too "commonplace" to suit the "Times;"
"The most creative intellect" it seems
Can't write originally, on such old themes.
Now Sir, with all due deference, I submit
That you must have been laboring in a fit
Of Mental Madness, when you wrote such stuff.
(To clear your mind, I'd recommend a 'puff'
Of cloudy vapor.) Each flower that decks the plains
Has been immortalised in countless strains,—
Yet who shall say "we've had enough of these;
Wild flowers are ' Stale,' they can no longer please,
They're withered by each 'versifier's' sigh—
Their fragrance has departed, let them die?"
Then there's another subject, "Fatherland,"
That's torn to pieces by the rhyming band;
The love of country, a la Moore and Scott,
Is voted by Great Critics to be 'rot,'
We're sick of all those patriotic lays
They're not the poetry of "Now a days."
The Poet's duty used to be to sing
Of noble deeds, but now it's no such thing;
The Poet's task was wont to be to start
The holiest feelings in the human heart—
The love of Home, and all we prize most dear—
For grief, a sigh—for misery, a tear,
For heroes, praise, but now that's "commonplace,"
For snarling sland'rous Critics, vile disgrace.
But now, in this advanced enlightened age,
'Æsthetic' Poetry is all the rage,
The Critic of "The Times" with contempt turns
page 5 From "tinkling commonplaces" such as Burns
And Hogg and Goldsmith gave the world.
Great Wordsworth's misty banner is unfurled;
The works of Bowles and Southey reign supreme,
Of Poesy their writings are the cream.
Yet there are men who seriously say—
The former Bards shall live in Fame's bright day
When Wordsworth and his foggy-minded crowd
Are hid behind K. B.'s "lone Mournful Cloud."
In my production, Sir, you cannot find
A line that brings up "freshness" to your mind,—
I well believe you, it's beyond my power
To freshen up a mind that seems so sour.
Perhaps my theme has kindled, (you know best)
Unpleasant recollections, in your breast,—
There are some folks, you know, who hate to hear
Aught relative to "Exiles." It is queer
But yet it's true, that there are men like these
Who cannot bear the phrase, "Across the Seas;"
It oft reminds them of the woes they've met,
And incidents, which they would fain forget.
To such as these, I'm blowed—I mean—I'm blest if
An 'Exile' is "particularly suggestive
Of Poetry." It's 'merit' is not "striking,"
A cloudy night is much more to their liking.
Or something more original, a "rippling billow"
Beneath the shadow of a "weeping willow."
Oh "Melancholy Prince of Denmark" thy fair love
Ophelia was drowned, poor crazy dove,
Oh mighty woe, that her mind should be bothered
Again at the Antipodes, she smothered.
Alas! her body's gone to feed the vermin,
The "Daily's" Critic preached her funeral sermon,
Forgive me, Sir, if I have hurt your honor
(This Muse of mine's at fault, the blame be on her)
In even hinting that you might have crost
The 'rippling billows,' at your country's cost,
The thing's impossible! I only meant
It's been the fate of many a better gent.
Your hatred to all ' Exiles' must proceed
From, some far different cause than that. Indeed
I think I have it now. The "Sun" has shed
A ray of light into my obtuse head,
page 6 A lady is mixed up in the affair;
Had I but known that, I would never dare
To strike my Lyre, when her Soft noted Lute
Sued sweetly for the 'Caledonian' "hoot,"
(Now "hoot's" a vulgar word, I trust you'll pardon me,
My 'Bush' experiences have helped to harden me),
I never shall forgive myself for this,
I'll cry for mercy. Pardon me, dear Miss
Or Misses, as the case may be, for gaining
The Prize, when thou thy tenderest chords were straining,
For thy fair form it would have bought a dress,
(I've been dressed by the 'Quixote' of the Press.)
Oh, Muse of mine, pray let us show contrition
For "palming" off a "schoolboy's composition,"
As English Poetry, on the wise Scribe
Who's word is law, who scorns to take a bribe,—
The self-dubbed guide, in literary matters,
Who deals out justice, and who never flatters.
Otago and Dunedin should be very
Proud of this literary luminary'
But for this 'Pilot' of the 'Daily's' pages
We'd soon drift back into the barb'rous ages.
Some fools may think, that in our schoolboy years
True poetry, in purest form appears—
That then, our freshest thoughts arise and shine
In closer union with all things divine.
Before the heart has caught the worldly blight
All Nature's works seem beautiful and bright;
The hopes and aspirations of our youth,
When to our minds all bears the stamp of truth,
Are offsprings of the purest 'poesy;'
Such trash the "Times" condemns as heresy,
It's learn'd Reviewer treats with ridicule
All things that are connected with a 'School.'
He breaks the 'ruler' o'er the master's pate,
The 'desk's' an object of his special hate;
Already he has slain 'The Colonist,'
Before he's 'born.' Give him his favorite Mist
That hides the noble mountains from our view,—
(I wonder is he fond of "Mountain dew?"
I think he likes it, by his style so Mistical,
So vain, so arrogant, so egotistical.)
His "Pegasus" mounts to the skies, sans crupp
page 7 I'm sure he's a disciple of great "Tapper,"
He's Special Correspondent of the 'Nine,'
And therefore, those 'admirers' of mine
Should sue for mercy to this Man of Terror
For their 'grave,' mischiefous, 'egregious' error;
What though they're educated gentlemen. It's plain
They can't appreciate a 'Cloud' of rain;
Perhaps they think (the unpoetic set)
That in Dunedin they have too much wet.
A Cloud at evening is a glorious sight,
But when it breaks up on a winter's night
And falls in heavy torrents to the ground
In Princes-street, why one is nearly drowned.
It drives romantic notions from a fellow
Especially if he has no umbrella,
That must be why the Judges did not grant
The 'Prize' to K. B. of the "Vap'rous Chant,"
How strange is human nature! All deceit!
If suffering comes on us alone we meet
Its frown with terror, but if others share
Our misery, the burden we can bear!
And thus it is that I now thank the 'Fates'
For giving me just twenty-seven mates,
All 'Rhymsters' like myself, without ability,
The 'Oracle' has said it—show humility!
Bow to its mandate, from 'Fame's' path retire,
And break each Lyre, or brand the "Times" a 'liar;
But Brethren, while you're thinking what to do
We'll strike a song up, I will give the 'Cue,'
Let's praise the "Times" although it did ignore us,
Now clear your throats, and join me in the chorus;
By way of a 'Finale' to my Rhymes
I'll take my Harp and sing to thee Oh "Times."