The Ballade of the Incompetent Ballade-Monger

I am not ambitious at all:

I am not a poet, I know

(Though I do love to see a mere scrawl

To order and symmetry grow).

My muse is uncertain and slow,

I am not expert with my tools.

I lack the poetic argot:

But I hope I have kept to the rules.

When your brain is undoubtedly small,

'Tis hard, sir, to write in a row,

Some five or six rhymes to "Nepaul,"

And more than a dozen to "Joe":

And meter is easier though,

Three rhymes are sufficient for "ghouls,"

My lines are deficient in go,

But I hope I have kept to the rules.

Unable to fly let me crawl,

Your patronage kindly bestow:

I am not the author of "Saul,"

I am not Voltaire or Rousseau:

I am not desirous, oh no!

To rise from the ranks of the fools,

To shine with Gosse, Dobson, and Co.:

But I hope I have kept to the rules.

Dear Sir, though my language is low,

Let me dip in Pierian pools:

My verses are only so-so,

But I hope I have kept to the rules.

J. K. Stephen

A Sonnet

TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;

It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,

Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,

Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:

And one is of an old half-witted sheep

Which bleats articulate monotony,

And indicates that two and one are three,

That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:

And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times

Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,

The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:

At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be

Quite unacquainted with the ABC

Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

J. K. Stephen

Drinking Song

THERE are people, I know, to be found,

  Who say, and apparently think,

That sorrow and care may be drowned

  By a timely consumption of drink.

Does not man, these enthusiasts ask,

  Most nearly approach the divine,

When engaged in the soul-stirring task

  Of filling his body with wine?

Have not beggars been frequently known,

  When satisfied, soaked, and replete,

To imagine their bench was a throne

  And the civilised world at their feet?

Lord Byron has finely described

  The remarkably soothing effect

Of liquor, profusely imbibed,

  On a soul that is shattered and wrecked.

In short, if your body or mind

  Or your soul or your purse come to grief,

You need only get drunk, and you'll find

  Complete and immediate relief.

For myself, I have managed to do

  Without having recourse to this plan,

So I can't write a poem for you,

  And you'd better get someone who can.

J. K. Stephen