TO CORRESPONDENTS

My Postman, though I fear thy tread,

And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,

‘ Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,

MY mortal foe is much severer, -

The Unknown Correspondent, who,

With undefatigable pen,

And nothing in the world to do,

Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder's End

They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,

The people of the Shetlands send

No inconsiderable quota;

They write for AUTOGRAPHS; in vain,

In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,

They write that Allan Quatermain

Is not at all the book for Brora.

They write to say that‘ they have met

This writer‘ at a garden party,

And though’ this writer‘ MAY forget,’

THEIR recollection's keen and hearty.

‘ And will you praise in your reviews

A novel by our distant cousin?’

These letters from Provincial Blues

Assail us daily by the dozen!

O friends with time upon your hands,

O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,

O poets out of many lands,

O youths and maidens under twenty,

Seek out some other wretch to bore,

Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,

And leave me to my dusty lore

And my unprofitable labours!