But he, whose books bedeck our shelves, Whose lofty genius we adore so, Was only human, like ourselves,-- Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so! And joined a thirst that nought could quench To morals which were frankly French.
And ev'ry night he made his way, With boon companions, bent on frolic, To inns of ill-repute, where lay Refreshments--chiefly alcoholic! (But I decline to raise your gorges, Describing these nocturnal orgies.)
Of love-affairs he knew no end, So long and ardently he flirted, And e'en the least suspicious friend Would feel a trifle disconcerted, When Burns was sitting with his "_sposa_," "As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"
A Cockney Chiel who found him thus, And showed some conjugal alarm, When Burns implored him not to fuss, Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?" Replied at once, with perfect taste, "The _h_arm is round my consort's waist!"
"A poor thing but my own," said he, His fair but fickle bride denoting, And she, with scathing repartee, Assented, wilfully misquoting, (Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah), "A poorer thing--and yet my owner!"
The most bucolic hearts were burnt By Burns' amatory glances; The most suburban spinsters learnt To welcome his abrupt advances; When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said, They wished that _they_ were there instead!
They loved him from the first, in spite Of angry parents' interference; They deemed his courtship so polite, So captivating his appearance; So great his charm, so apt his wit, In local parlance, Burns was IT!
The rustic maids from far and wide, Encouraged his unwise flirtations; For love of Burns they moped and sighed, And, while their nearest male relations Were up in arms, the sad thing is That they themselves were up in his!
His crest a mug, with open lid, The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,-- Inscribed "Amari Aliquid," (Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"), On either side, as meet supporters, The village blacksmith's lovely daughters.
"Men were deceivers ever!" True, As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!), But one should always keep in view That "_tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny_"; In judging poets it suffices To scan their verses, not their vices. . . . . . . The poets of the present time Attempt their feeble imitations; Are economical of rhyme, And lavish with reiterations; The while a patient public swallows A "Border Ballad" much as follows:--