TRUE DIFFIDENCE.

My boy, you may take it from me,

That of all the afflictions accurst

With which a man's saddled

And hampered and addled,

A diffident nature's the worst.

Though clever as clever can be —

A Crichton of early romance —

You must stir it and stump it,

And blow your own trumpet,

Or, trust me, you have n't a chance.

Now take, for example, my case:

I've a bright intellectual brain —

In all London city

There's no one so witty —

I've thought so again and again.

I've a highly intelligent face —

My features cannot be denied —

But, whatever I try, sir,

I fail in — and why, sir?

I'm modesty personified!

As a poet, I'm tender and quaint —

I've passion and fervor and grace —

From Ovid and Horace

To Swinburne and Morris,

They all of them take a back place,

Then I sing and I play and I paint;

Though none are accomplished as I,

To say so were treason:

You ask me the reason?

I'm diffident, modest and shy!