In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, But now you see Revealed in me The gloomiest bard on earth. I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife. Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fashion-plate, One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, Delsarte.
Where'er she goes, She loves to pose, In classic attitudes, And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; And she, my child, Who all so wild, So helpless and so sweet, That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte.
In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; But now these wise Folks criticise My figure and my face, And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique,-- With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte.
Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more. Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; The old-time bard Of pork and lard Is plainly out of sight. All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, While Lachesis brews For the poor old Muse A portion of scalding soup. Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter learned Delsarte."
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- These three bloomed in a garden spot; And once, all merry with song and play, A little one heard three voices say: "Shine or shadow, summer or spring, O thou child with the tangled hair And laughing eyes, we three shall bring Each an offering, passing fair!" The little one did not understand; But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.