Envoi

Simple is the man who fancies,
In his fond and foolish heart,
That the author weaves romances
For the love of Art;
That the poet's torch, ignited
By some sacred inner fire,
Is a spark of genius lighted
To illume his lyre;
That 'tis Honour or Ambition
Prompts the bard to composition!

No celestial inspiration
Gilds the poet's cheerless den,
Kindles his imagination,
Stirs his sluggish pen;
No divine afflatus, blowing
From some charmed Pierian font,
Starts the springs of fancy flowing
Like the spur of Want.
This, poor Pegasus controlling,
Sets the eye in frenzy rolling!

Not in search of fame or rank is
He who drives this fretful quill,
But his balance at the bank is
Practically nil,
And the cause, the motive, lying
At his inspiration's roots,
Is the sound of children crying,
Crying out for boots;
'Tis the need for ready money
Makes the humorist so funny!