Friend Robert, if mere imitation
Expresses one's deepest regard,
How oft has such dumb adoration
Been shown on his beat by your bard;
In dress, though the semblance seems hollow,
How oft since my duties began
Have I striven, poor "special," to follow
The modes of the Man.
I have aped till my muscles grew rigid
Your air of Olympian calm;
Have sought, when my framework was frigid,
To "stand" it _sans_ quiver or qualm;
I have also endeavoured to copy
The stealthiest thud of your boot;
And, with features as pink as a poppy,
Your solemn salute.
In vain. Every effort is futile,
And, while I am "doing my share"
To guard (after midnight) a mute isle,
Or the bit of it close by my lair,
'Tis perfectly plain that, although it
Is easy to offer one's aid,
The P.C., alas! like the poet,
Is born and not made.
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