 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
TO CASSIUS
On reading his lines commencing
“And what are we poets made of.”
“And what are we poets made of.”
Forbear, forbear! ye graceless sinner!
Why need ye gar the ladies winner?
If poets like a hearty dinner
E'en let 'em do it;—
But though they're mortal men, it winna
Be wise to show it.
Why need ye gar the ladies winner?
If poets like a hearty dinner
E'en let 'em do it;—
But though they're mortal men, it winna
Be wise to show it.
The warld believes we are a grade
O' favored beings, finely made,
But if 'tis proved we rhyme for bread
Or needfu' gain,
We poets then may ply our trade
O' sang in vain.
O' favored beings, finely made,
But if 'tis proved we rhyme for bread
Or needfu' gain,
We poets then may ply our trade
O' sang in vain.
Ye speak o' us as if we were
A' unco' fickle to the fair
Sure mischief set ye to declare
That half our trade is
To flatter wi' the self-same prayer
A score o' ladies.
A' unco' fickle to the fair
Sure mischief set ye to declare
That half our trade is
To flatter wi' the self-same prayer
A score o' ladies.
An' if we a' abjure the Muses,
Will sentimental fair anes roose us,
An' kindly seek to heal the bruises
They gie our hearts?
Alas! frae hence they'll a' refuse us,
Spite o' our arts.
Will sentimental fair anes roose us,
An' kindly seek to heal the bruises
They gie our hearts?
170
Spite o' our arts.
Ye've played the muckle deevil, Cassius—
A few mair rhymes like yours wad fash us;
The reverend parsons a' wad lash us
Till they were weary,
An' ding us down frae steep Parnassus
A' tapsalteerie.
A few mair rhymes like yours wad fash us;
The reverend parsons a' wad lash us
Till they were weary,
An' ding us down frae steep Parnassus
A' tapsalteerie.
Then cease ye're blether, Cassius—quat it,
When ye in better mood gae at it,
An' rhyme wi' truth, I'll nae combat it;
For ye hae truly
A sonsie muse, if ye'd nae let it
Gang sae unruly.
When ye in better mood gae at it,
An' rhyme wi' truth, I'll nae combat it;
For ye hae truly
A sonsie muse, if ye'd nae let it
Gang sae unruly.
Boston Statesman, March 1, 1828
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |