MY boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man’s saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature’s the worst. Though clever as clever can be— A Crichton of early romance— You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance. Now take, for example, _my_ case: I’ve a bright intellectual brain— In all London city There’s no one so witty— I’ve thought so again and again. I’ve a highly intelligent face— My features cannot be denied— But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in—and why, sir? I’m modesty personified! As a poet, I’m tender and quaint— I’ve passion and fervour and grace— From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place. Then I sing and I play and I paint; Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason? I’m diffident, modest, and shy! THE TANGLED SKEIN TRY we life-long, we can never Straighten out life’s tangled skein, Why should we, in vain endeavour, Guess and guess and guess again? Life’s a pudding full of plums Care’s a canker that benumbs. Wherefore waste our elocution On impossible solution? Life’s a pleasant institution, Let us take it as it comes! Set aside the dull enigma, We shall guess it all too soon; Failure brings no kind of stigma— Dance we to another tune! String the lyre and fill the cup, Lest on sorrow we should sup; Hop and skip to Fancy’s fiddle, Hands across and down the middle— Life’s perhaps the only riddle That we shrink from giving up! MY LADY BEDECKED in fashion trim, With every curl a-quiver; Or leaping, light of limb, O’er rivulet and river; Or skipping o’er the lea On daffodil and daisy; Or stretched beneath a tree, All languishing and lazy; Whatever be her mood— Be she demurely prude Or languishingly lazy— My lady drives me crazy! In vain her heart is wooed, Whatever be her mood!