MY Postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,
_My_ mortal foe is much severer,—
The Unknown Correspondent, who,
With undefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder’s End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for _autographs_; in vain,
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.
They write to say that they have met
This writer ‘at a garden party,
And though’ this writer ‘_may_ forget,’
_Their_ recollection’s keen and hearty.
‘And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin?’
These letters from Provincial Blues
Assail us daily by the dozen!
O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
And my unprofitable labours!