POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2323, 14 September 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

A TILLAGE POET'S FIRST POEM IN A VILLAGE NEWSPAPER.

The following is the humourous wail of a suffering poet on reading his first poem as printed in a oountry newspaper. The list is a goodly one, but of probable errors; and looks as if it could only hare been done by a printer —it is, at any rate evidently written by one thoroughly conversant with the mishaps of the printer's case.

Ah ! here it is ! I'm famous now— An author and a poet! It really is in print! Ye Gods ! How proud I'll be to show it! And gentle Anna! What a thrill Will animate her breast, To read these ardent lines and know To whom they are addressed !

Why ! bless my soul! there's something strange ! What can the paper mean By talking of the graceful brooks That gander o'er the green. And here's a t instead of r, Which make's it tippling rill; We'll seek the shad instead of shade, And hell, instead of hill.

They look so—what ? I recollect, 'Twas sweet, and then 'twas kind, And now to think, the stupid fool, For bland has printed blind. Was ever suoh provoking work ? 'Tis ourious by the bye, How anything is rendered blind By giving it an eye. " Hajt thou no tearß ?" The t's loft out, " Hast thou no ears," instead ; " I hope that thou art dear " is put " I hope that thou art dead," Who ever saw in such a space Bo many blunders crammed ? " Those gentle eyes bedimmed," is spelt " Thote gentle eyes be dammed !'' The colour of the " roso " is nose ; " Affection " is affliction ; I wonder if the likeness holds In fact as well as diction ? " Thou art a friend," the r is gone— Who ever would have deemed That suoh a trifling thing could change A "friend " into a fiend. Thou art the "same" is rendered lame — It really is too bad ! And hero because an i is out, My lovely " maid " ia mad ; They drove her blind by poking in An eye—a process new; And now they've gouged it ont again, And made her crazy, too. Let's stop and recapitulate; I've dammed her eyes, that's plain ; I've told her she's a lunatio, And blind, and deaf, and lame. Waß ever such a horrid hash In poetry or prooe ? I've said she was a fiend, and praised The colour of her nose ! I wish I had that editor About a half a minute ; I'd bang him to his heart's content, And with a h begin it ; I'd jam his body, eyes, and bones, And spell it with a d, And send him to that hill of his— He spells it with an e. —" Paper and Print."