Oh, threats of Failure, hopes of Royalties! One thing at least I've sold--these Parodies; One thing is certain, Satire always sells; The Roast is read, no matter where it is. LXIV Strange, is it not? that of the Authors who Publish in England, such a mighty Few Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? The British Public knows a Thing or Two! LXV By Revelations of the Past we've learn'd The Yankee Author usually is burn'd; All of our Story Writers say the Same; The London Critic all their Books have spurn'd. LXVI I sent my Agent where the Buyers dwell, Some clever Stories of my own to sell: And by and by the Agent said to me, "One thing I sold--that's doing Mighty Well!" LXVII So Heaven seems tame indeed when I behold Editions of Five Hundred Thousand sold; When Clippings show how Critics scorch me, then Hell's Roasting seems comparatively Cold! LXVIII We are no other than a passing Show Of clumsy Mountebanks that come and go To please the General Public; now, who gave To IT the right to judge, I'd like to know? LXIX Impotent Writers bound to feed ITS taste For Literature and Poetry debased; Hither and thither pandering we strive, And one by one our Talents are disgraced. LXX The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, But what the Editor demands he shows; And he who buys three thousand words of Drule, _He_ knows what People want--you Bet He knows! LXXI The facile Scribbler writes; and, having writ, No Rules of Rhetoric bother him a Bit, Or lure him back to cancel half a Line, Nor Grammar's protests change a Word of it. LXXII And though you wring your Hands and wonder Why Such slipshod Work the Magazines will buy, Don't grumble at the Editor, for he Must serve the Public, e'en as You and I. LXXIII With Puck's first joke, they did the last Life feed, And there of Judge's Stories sowed the Seed: And the first jokelet that Joe Miller wrote The Sunday Comic-Section readers read. LXXIV YESTERDAY _This_ Day's popular Song supplants; TO-MORROW'S will be even worse, perchance: Drink! For the latest Coon-Song's floating by: Drink! Now the music is an Indian Dance! LXXV I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, The first Plantation Ditty 'gan to roll Through Minstrel Troupes and Negro Baritones In its predestined race from Pole to Pole, LXXVI The Song had caught a Rag-Time girls could shout And Piano-Organs make a Din about; But syncopated Melodies at last Will pass away, and more shall come, no doubt. LXXVII And this I know: though Vaudeville delight, Musical Comedy can bore me quite; One act of Ibsen from the Gallery caught, Better than Daly for a festal Night! LXXVIII What! out of senseless Show-Girls to evoke A Drama? Surely, I resent the Joke! For me, it is not Pleasure, but a Pain-- An Everlasting Bore for decent Folk. LXXIX