Some stuff that a Greek
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.

For when it _is_ done,
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
And as for the style--
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.

It was all very fine
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.

So away with Greek Prose,
The source of my woes!
(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!




AN ORATOR'S COMPLAINT