THIS twelvemonth at the grindstone I have ground,
Toiling to meet the toll of profiteers,
And now comes AUSTEN, budgeting around,
"Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears"
(MILTON), and leaves me naked as a poodle,
Shorn--to the buff--of my laborious boodle.
I own it irks me little when he goes
For fancy weeds and wine of fizzy brands;
But I protest at parting through the nose
For what the meanest human life demands;
Nothing is sacred from his monstrous paw,
Not letters, no, nor even usquebaugh.
That beverage, which invites to balmy sleep
(Guerdon of toil), is on the upward ramp;
My harmless doggerel--in itself so cheap--
Despatched by post will want a larger stamp;
Nor have I any wives or children to
Abate the mulcting of my revenue.
But if you tell me I am asked to bleed
For England; if, by being rudely tapped,
My modest increment may help at need
To spare some Office which would else be scrapped;
If my poor fleece of wool by heavy cropping
Can save the Civil Estimates from dropping;--
If I can keep in comfortable ease
But one superfluous Staff for one week's play;
If from my squalor I may hope to squeeze
The wherewithal to check for half a day
The untimely razing of a single Hut--
'Tis well; I will not even murmur "Tut."