MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN

_Contents_


AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

PUBLISHER'S PREFACE

ROBERT BURNS

WILLIAM WALDORF ASTOR

HENRY VIII

ALTON B. PARKER

EUCLID

J. M. BARRIE

OMAR KHAYYAM

ANDREW CARNEGIE

KING COPHETUA

JOSEPH F. SMITH

SHERLOCK HOLMES

AFTWORD




_Authors Foreword_

(_To the Publisher_)


When honest men are all in bed,
We poets at our desks are toiling,
To earn a modicum of bread,
And keep the pot a-boiling;
We weld together, bit by bit,
The fabric of our laboured wit.

We see with eyes of frank dismay
The coming of this Autumn season,
When bards are driven to display
Their feast of rhyme and reason;
With hectic brain and loosened collar,
We chase the too-elusive dollar.

While Publishers, in search of grist,
Despise our masterly inaction,
And shake their faces in our fist,
Demanding satisfaction,
We view with vague or vacant mind
The grim agreements we have signed.

For though a willing public gives
Its timely share of cash assistance,
The author (like the dentist) lives
A hand-to-mouth existence;
And Publishers, those modern Circes,
Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.

Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,
The features of the furtive jester!
Compelled by contracts to curtail
His moments of siesta!
A true White Knight is he to-day
(_Nuit Blanche_, as Stevenson would say).

Ah, surely he has laboured well,
Constructing this immortal sequel,--
A work which no one could excel,
And very few can equal,--
A volume which, I dare to say,
Is epoch-making, in its way.

When other poets' work is not,
These verses shall retain their label;
When Herford is a thing forgot,
And Ade an ancient fable;
When Goops no longer give a sign
Of Burgess's empurpled kine.

My Publishers, I love you so!
Your well-secreted virtues viewing;
Who never let your right hand know
Whom your left hand is doing;
Who hold me firmly in your grip,
And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!

My Publishers, make no mistake,
You have in me an _avis rara_,
So write a princely cheque, and make
It payable to bearer;
I love you, as I said before,
But oh! I love your money more!




_Publisher's Preface_

(_To the Author_)


Voracious Author, gorged with gold,
Your grasping greed shall not avail!
In vain you venture to unfold
Your false prehensile tale!
I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)
The width of your capacious maw.

On me the onus has to fall
Of your malevolent effusions;
'Tis I who bear the brunt of all
Your libellous allusions;
To bolster up your turgid verse,
I jeopardise my very purse!

You do not hesitate to fleece
The Publisher you scorn to thank,
And when you manage to decrease
His balance at the bank,
Your face is lighted up with greed,
And you are lantern-jawed indeed!

Yet will I still heap coals of fire,
Until your coiffure is imbedded,
And you at last, perchance, shall tire
Of growing so hot-headed,
And realise that being funny
Is not a mere affair of money.

And so, in honour of your pow'rs,
A fragrant bouquet will I pick,
Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rs
Of speech and rhetoric;
I'll add a thistle, if I may,
And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.

The blossoms for your button-hole,
To mark your affluent condition,
Exotics to inspire your soul
To further composition.
Come, set the bays upon your brow!
* * * * *
Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!