A SONG OF GREEK PROSE

Thrice happy are those

Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose —

Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;

For Liddell and Scott

Shall cumber them not,

Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.

But I, late at night,

By the very bad light

Of very bad gas, must painfully write

Some stuff that a Greek

With his delicate cheek

Would smile at as‘ barbarous’ — faith, he well might.

For when it is done,

I doubt if, for one,

I myself could explain how the meaning might run;

And as for the style —

Well, it's hardly worth while

To talk about style, where style there is none.

It was all very fine

For a poet divine

Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;

But the Prose that I sing

Is a different thing,

And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.

So away with Greek Prose,

The source of my woes!

( This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close. )

May Sargent be drowned

In the ocean profound,

And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!