The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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TO THE CRITICS. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
TO THE CRITICS.
Sat down by my wee rusted lyre,
And musing which way to get through,
Ye quenchers of poets' best fire,
How oft have I trembled at you!
And musing which way to get through,
Ye quenchers of poets' best fire,
How oft have I trembled at you!
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The vulture may seize the young lamb,
The raven may torture the dove,
And critics may tell what I am,
But oh, let your censures be love!
The raven may torture the dove,
And critics may tell what I am,
But oh, let your censures be love!
Ye weighers of man's little wit,
Which comes in a book to your eye,
Like spiders on cobwebs you sit,
To mangle and murder a fly.
Which comes in a book to your eye,
Like spiders on cobwebs you sit,
To mangle and murder a fly.
Write your praise or dispraise for the great,
And rail on the muse of a lord,
Shoot at those who are laughing at fate,
And strike with your fame-killing sword.
And rail on the muse of a lord,
Shoot at those who are laughing at fate,
And strike with your fame-killing sword.
But come to my cottage, and view
What feathers I have for my wings;
And then you will own there are few
So lowly durst strike at the strings.
What feathers I have for my wings;
And then you will own there are few
So lowly durst strike at the strings.
I gaze on my children asleep,
Assur'd that their lot is but hard;
Yes, while I write verses I weep
To think their best friend is the bard.
Assur'd that their lot is but hard;
Yes, while I write verses I weep
To think their best friend is the bard.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |