["It is pessimism which produces wit. Optimism is nearly always
dull."]
When I was a feather-brained stripling
And new to my frivolous Muse,
I parodied AUSTIN and KIPLING
And floundered in CALVERLEY'S shoes.
With hope as a tonic I primed my internals
And sent in my stuff to the various journals
Although the wet blanket of chronic
Rejection adhered to my form,
I took the above-mentioned tonic
And managed to keep myself warm.
My verses were light, but my spirits were lighter;
Some day, I kept saying, the sky would get brighter.
Years passed, but my lot never varied,
And hope seemed to suffer a slump,
And life became empty and arid--
In short, I contracted the "hump."
Despair filled my heart, once so sanguine and placid;
Thenceforward I wrote not with ink, but with acid.
I put away laughter and pleasure,
I sought Fortune's arrows and slings,
And found what a wonderful treasure
Lies hid on the dark side of things;
For woe gave me wit, and my bile-begot vapours
Procured me the ear of the humorous papers.
And now, when prosperity chases
The frown from my forehead, I go
And scatter my cash at the races,
Or visit a music-hall show;
Restored to a decent depression, _instanter_
I turn out a column of exquisite banter.
Sour grapes make the daintiest nectar;
I fill up a bumper each night
To banish the fatuous spectre
Of dull-witted joy from my sight,
And, sitting alone in a darkness Cimmerian,
I drink to the toast, 'A long life and a weary 'un!'
STANLEY J. FAY.
July 5, 1911.
_The Elder Song_