MY LORD POET

“Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat;”

Who sings for nobles, he should noble be.

There's no non sequitur, I think, in that,

And this is logic plain as a, b, c.

Now, Hector Stuart, you're a Scottish prince,

If right you fathom your descent — that fall

From grace; and since you have no peers, and since

You have no kind of nobleness at all,

‘ Twere better to sing little, lest you wince

When made by heartless critics to sing small.

And yet, my liege, I bid you not despair —

Ambition conquers but a realm at once:

For European bays arrange your hair —

Two continents, in time, shall crown you Dunce!