THE CRITICS.

As a matter of fact,

I am sure I can act,

And so,

When I go,

To the show,

Not the art of an Irving

Seems wholly deserving,

And though Booth were the star

He'd have many a jar,

If he heard the critique

Which I frequently speak,

As you

Do,

Too.

Written deep in my heart

Is a knowledge of art,

For why?

I've an eye

Like a die.

And where Raphael's paint

Has bedizened some saint,

I note his perspective

Is sadly defective,

And you? O, I know

When you've looked on Corot

The same

Blame

Came.

And the world would have gained

If my voice had been trained,

For my ear

Is severe,

As I hear

De Reszke and Patti.

( I've heard‘ em sing “ratty!” )

And the crowd has yelled “Bis!”

When a call for police

Should have shortened the score.

Was there ever a more

Absurd

Word

Heard?

And I feel, now and then,

I could handle a pen,

For indeed,

As I heed

What I read,

I observe many faults;

Homer nods, Shakespere halts,

Dante's sad, Pope is trite,

Poe's mechanic, Holmes light,

Yet so easy to do

Is the thing, even you

Might

Write

Quite

Bright!