Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/26

Not that I wish you to narrate
My birth, my parentage, estate,
Nor all my life details collate,
For these would fail;
Tell how I did myself employ,
Tell how I roamed a gleeman coy,
And touched of old "the wood of joy,"
Sang history's tale.

Look at my legendary lore;
My ballads sung in days of yore,
Your literati now adore,
The people praise;
These so-called "good old times" have flown,
The minstrel's "occupation's gone,"
We're better, wiser, greater grown
In latter days.

E'en long ere Anglo-Saxon times
Rejoiced in me, I sang my rhymes,
And, wandering in many climes,
Did fame acquire;
Ere Hesiod or Homer sung,
Ere Sophocles or Sappho sprung,
Ere Seneca or Virgil strung
The poet's lyre.

When persecution first did drain
The Christians' blood, in Nero's reign,
My hymns did soar in sweetest strain,
On wings of prayer.
E'en ere the Royal Psalmist's day,
My voice was heard in holy lay;
If earlier ages you survey,
I'm traced even there.

There many imitators were,
From early days who fain would share
With me my fame, my garb did wear,
To suit their aim.
King Alfred as a minstrel lone;
Dickens from "Boz" has famous grown;
And Scott was called "The Great Unknown"—
The name I claim.

But Anon. Letters I disclaim,
Written by those who 'neath my name,
Would hide their cowardice and shame,
They raise my ire;