Bacon

In far Elizabethan days

( Ho! By my Halidome! Gadzooks! )

Lord Bacon wrote his own essays,

And lots of other people's books;

Annexing as a pseudonym

Each author's name that suited him.

All notoriety he'd shirk,

Nor sought for literary credit,

Although the best of Shakespeare's work

Was his. ( For Mrs. Gallup said it,

And she, poor lady, I suppose,

Has read the whole of it, and knows. )

Such was his kind, unselfish plan,

That he allowed a rude, unshaven,

Ill-educated actor man

To style himself the Bard of Avon;

Altho’‘ twas he and not this fellow

Who wrote “The Tempest” and “Othello.”

For right throughout his works there is

A cipher hid, which makes it certain

That all Pope's “Iliad” is his,

And the “Anatomy” of Burton;

There's not a volume you can name

To which he has not laid a claim.

He is responsible, I wot,

For Euclid's lucid demonstrations,

The early works of Walter Scott,

And the Aurelian “Meditations”;

Also “The House with Seven Gables”

And most of AEsop's ( so-called ) Fables.

And once, when he annoyed the Queen,

And wished to gain the royal pardon,

He wrote his masterpiece; I mean

That work about her German Garden;

And published, just before his death,

The “Visits of Elizabeth.”

Yet peradventure we are wrong,

For just as probable the chance is

That all these volumes may belong

To someone else, and not to Francis.

I think,— tho’ I may be mistaken,—

That Shakespeare wrote the works of Bacon.

If you approach the Mosque of Fame,

And seek to climb its tallest steeple,

Just lodge a literary claim

Against the works of other people.

And though the Press may not receive it,

A few old ladies will believe it.

For instance, I of proof could bring

Sufficient to convince the layman

That I had written ev'rything

Attributed to Stanley Weyman.

In common justice I should pocket

The royalties of S. R. Crockett.

And anyone can plainly see,

Without the wit of Machiavelli,

That “Hall Caines look alike to me,”

Since I am Ouida and Corelli.

Yes, I am Rudyard Kipling, truly,

And the immortal Mr. Dooley.