With wounded pride and dulled ambition,
My humble book of verses thrived
And quite outgrew the old edition!
So now I have exhaled some more, —
Mephitically, as before!
Postlude
THE book is finished! With a sigh,
My pen upon the desk I lay;
The weary task is o'er, and I
Am off upon a holiday,
To Paris, lovely Paris, where
I have a little ventr'-à-terre.[2 - Publisher's Reader – "Pied-a-terre"?Author – Shut up!]
And tho' my verses may be weak,
And call for your severest strictures,
The illustrations are unique, —
I really never saw such pictures!
(At times, in my unthinking way,
I almost hope I never may.)
notes
1
Note. —
"Lors, dit-on, quand il jouait Handel
Le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle."
2
Publisher's Reader – "Pied-a-terre"?
Author – Shut up!