Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
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THE PSEUDO AUTHOR. |
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
324
THE PSEUDO AUTHOR.
I cannot get a publisher!—
My case is very hard;
I've struggled long to gain the name
Of novelist or bard;
I've six Romances cut and dry,
Of Epics I have more;
I've written ballads by the yard,
And sonnets by the score.
My case is very hard;
I've struggled long to gain the name
Of novelist or bard;
I've six Romances cut and dry,
Of Epics I have more;
I've written ballads by the yard,
And sonnets by the score.
One morn I penn'd a Tragedy,
A bloody tale of woe,
It breath'd of daggers, fire, and death,
With four mad scenes or so;
I read it to a manager
From curtain's rise to fall,
He bade me cut it to a farce—
The cruelest cut of all.
A bloody tale of woe,
It breath'd of daggers, fire, and death,
With four mad scenes or so;
I read it to a manager
From curtain's rise to fall,
He bade me cut it to a farce—
The cruelest cut of all.
325
I cannot get a publisher!—
They say the press is free—
Alas! the freedom of the press
No freedom brings to me.
A slave to dactyles, anapæsts,
Iambics and spondees,
The “well of English undefiled”
I've drained ev'n to the lees.
They say the press is free—
Alas! the freedom of the press
No freedom brings to me.
A slave to dactyles, anapæsts,
Iambics and spondees,
The “well of English undefiled”
I've drained ev'n to the lees.
I try to break my chain, and dive
In Learning's deepest mines,
And yet, in place of getting free,
I'm caught in my own lines:
My prose, in periods rounded smooth,
And turned with nicest care,
Will soon a period put to me,
Or plunge me in despair.
In Learning's deepest mines,
And yet, in place of getting free,
I'm caught in my own lines:
My prose, in periods rounded smooth,
And turned with nicest care,
Will soon a period put to me,
Or plunge me in despair.
My syntax is admired by all—
Keep talent out of view—
But I cannot get a publisher!
So what am I to do?
They talk of patrons in the “trade,”
To which I quite agree,
But when I call on one or all,
They will not trade with me.
Keep talent out of view—
But I cannot get a publisher!
So what am I to do?
They talk of patrons in the “trade,”
To which I quite agree,
326
They will not trade with me.
I wrote to Colburn, hoping he
Would hand me up to fame,
And waited on the tenter-hooks
Till out the Monthly came;
But not a line or scrap of mine
Could I find printed there,
Save “To ‘O. O.’ we say, Oh! Oh!”
Which drove me to despair!
Would hand me up to fame,
And waited on the tenter-hooks
Till out the Monthly came;
But not a line or scrap of mine
Could I find printed there,
Save “To ‘O. O.’ we say, Oh! Oh!”
Which drove me to despair!
Then Murray of Albemarle Street,
To him I bent my way—
He said his hands were filled by all
The first pens of the day:
Pshaw! 'tis too bad—were I shown up
In Quarterly Review,
How does he know but I might rank
A first-rate writer too!
To him I bent my way—
He said his hands were filled by all
The first pens of the day:
Pshaw! 'tis too bad—were I shown up
In Quarterly Review,
How does he know but I might rank
A first-rate writer too!
E'en Longman has turned short with me,
And Cadell scarce will bow:
Macrone, he was a crony once—
He's not a crony now!
They're all alike;—Simpkin & Co.
Looked o'er some lines of mine,
And now they send a line to say—
They are not in that line.
And Cadell scarce will bow:
Macrone, he was a crony once—
He's not a crony now!
327
Looked o'er some lines of mine,
And now they send a line to say—
They are not in that line.
I wrote to Dublin, but I've got
No answer to my prayer,
Although I wished most anxiously
To Curry favour there.
I thought the Modern Athens might
Afford some chance for me,
So, charged with trunk, high pressure crammed,
I thither hied with glee.
No answer to my prayer,
Although I wished most anxiously
To Curry favour there.
I thought the Modern Athens might
Afford some chance for me,
So, charged with trunk, high pressure crammed,
I thither hied with glee.
But there the same sad want of taste
I found even to the full;
They said my grave works were too light,
My light works far too dull.
Blackwood at once did black ball me,
And Tait—'twas silly spite—
Showed me a snuff-shop where they'd buy
As much as I could write.
I found even to the full;
They said my grave works were too light,
My light works far too dull.
Blackwood at once did black ball me,
And Tait—'twas silly spite—
Showed me a snuff-shop where they'd buy
As much as I could write.
The Printing Company I tried,
Thinking we might agree;
Alas! they won't make company
With either mine or me!
Then Oliver I thought would take
My tale, “Roland the True;”
But a “Roland for an Oliver”
I found here would not do.
Thinking we might agree;
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With either mine or me!
Then Oliver I thought would take
My tale, “Roland the True;”
But a “Roland for an Oliver”
I found here would not do.
The Chamberses their chambers keep
Whene'er on them I call,
And Bradfute quickly makes light foot
Between me and the wall;
And he who talked of “types” and “tomes”
Has also turned my foe—
Ye're no sae kind's you should hae been,
John Anderson, my joe!
Whene'er on them I call,
And Bradfute quickly makes light foot
Between me and the wall;
And he who talked of “types” and “tomes”
Has also turned my foe—
Ye're no sae kind's you should hae been,
John Anderson, my joe!
I cannot get a publisher!
And what is to be done?
My Perryian pen will pen no more,
My inky stream is run—
Go get a goose-quill! sink expense!
Come, wind, blow rack or rain,
Big with a summer Tragedy,
I'll try the field again!
And what is to be done?
My Perryian pen will pen no more,
My inky stream is run—
Go get a goose-quill! sink expense!
Come, wind, blow rack or rain,
Big with a summer Tragedy,
I'll try the field again!
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