Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning,
   Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew,
Hearken to me and receive my warning: 
   Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few
And most of them troubled with rat or mouse,
Never take rooms in a corner house;
Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning
   Shall be for a portion unto you.

 THE POET’S HAT

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
   He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,
   And he uttered some words that were far from sweet. 
And then he started to follow the chase,
   And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause in a crowd,
   And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,
   The errand-boy shouted hooray! 
The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,
   And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, ’I have heard many words,
   But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
   As I heard that young man say.’

 A SONG OF GREEK PROSE

   Thrice happy are those
   Who ne’er heard of Greek Prose—­
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
   For Liddell and Scott
   Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.

   But I, late at night,
   By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
   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

How many the troubles that wait
   On mortals!—­especially those
   Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak
   When you hadn’t a word to say? 
   Did you find that it wouldn’t pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead
   In a fervid defence of the Stage,
   Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?

 Did you ever rise to reply
   To a toast (say ’The Volunteers’),
   And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn’t exactly know why?