Professor Gayley, you’re a great man, sure!
They say that you can almost fly!—can spell
And parse, but cannot figure well
(For mathematics is not literature)
And hold—with rancor—that twice two are fewer
Than they’re cracked up to be. Let sinners tell
Wherein you disappoint, but I will swell
The chorus of your greatness. I’ll procure
For that exploit a megaphone of brass,
And roar your excellences to the sky,
And fill with witness all the world! Alas,
You can’t write poetry! No more can I,
But that, you’ll notice, is another matter.
Besides, I’m less ubiloquent, and fatter.
You hold the Chair, so your credentials say,
Of English Letters. That is well and fine.
Through teaching diligently, line by line,
You may yourself have the good luck some day
To learn enough of it to bid you stay
Your red right hand from making it. The nine
Dear Muses then with laurels will entwine
Your brows and leg it lightly to display
Their joy. O bold, bad poet, hear
These words of wisdom (from a grizzled head)
Inserted civilly into your ear:
In teaching verse you’ll better earn your bread,
And on our feelings less unkindly trample,
If you will work by precept, not example.
Not all the shouting capitals you use
Can strengthen feebleness, nor all the skill
You lack conceal the foolish hates that fill
The fountain whence the driblet of your views
Flows in a dirty channel to suffuse
With slime the British Empire! Dip your quill
In something sweeter and you’ll write less ill—
At least your rant we better can excuse.
No doubt you wish you had been born a Boer
(Spelling excepted, so indeed you were;
A Bore as well) but that’s a very poor
Ambition. By the Lord! I should prefer
To be a Briton though they shot me daily
And threw my body to your hoofs, Jack Gayley.