To Correspondents

MY Postman, though I fear thy tread,

And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,

’T is not the Christmas Dun I dread,

My mortal foe is much severer,—

The Unknown Correspondent, who,

With indefatigable pen,

And nothing in the world to do,

Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder’s End

They write; from Deal and from Dacotah,

The people of the Shetlands send

No inconsiderable quota;

They write for autographs; in vain,

In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,

They write that Allan Quatermain

Is not at all the book for Brora.

They write to say that “they have met”

This writer “at a garden party,”

And though this writer “may forget,”

Their recollection’s keen and hearty.

“And will you praise in your reviews

A novel by our distant cousin?”

These letters from Provincial Blues

Assail 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 lore,

And my unprofitable labours.