He does not read at all, yet he doth hoard

      Rich books. In exile on his shelves they’re stored;

      And many a volume, sweet and good and true,

      Fails in the work that it was made to do.

      Why, e’en the dust they’ve caught since he began

      Would quite suffice to make a decent man!

      I got a tome to-day, and I was glad to strike it,

      Because no other man can ever get one like it.

      ’Tis poor, and badly print; its meaning’s Greek;

      But what of that? ’Tis mine, and it’s unique.

      So Bah! to others,

      Men and brothers —

      Bah! and likewise Pooh!

      I’ve got the best of you.

      Go sicken, die, and eke repine.

      That book you wanted – Gad! that’s mine!

      Daudet to him is e’er Dodett;

      Dumas he calls Dumass;

      But prithee do not you forget

      He’s not at all an ass;

      Because the books that he doth buy,

      That on his shelf do stand,

      Hold not one page his eagle eye

      Hath not completely scanned.

      And while this man’s orthoepy

      May not be what it should,

      He knows what books contain, and he

      “Can quote ’em pretty good.”

      I feel that I am quite as smart

      As Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.

      I’m also every bit as bright

      As Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;

      And in my own peculiar way

      I’m just as good as Thackeray.

      But, woe is me that it should be,

      They got here years ahead of me,

      And all the tales I would unfold

      By them already have been told.

      They speak most truly who do say

      We have no writing-folk to-day

      Like those whose names, in days gone by,

      Upon the scroll of fame stood high.