Rosemary and Pansies/A Rhymer's Complaint
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A RHYMER'S COMPLAINT
Surely no other language that is known
So handicaps poor rhymers as our own,
Or causes them so much to sweat and swear
When seeking for the rhyme that is not there:
By this at every turn the poet's baffled,
As I am now—for how to bring in 'scaffold'
Would puzzle even Swinburne—so would 'raffled'
And these are all the rhymes that you can use—
A pretty choice to set before the muse!
If you're in love you have to lug in 'dove,'
'Her glove,' or else appeal to 'heaven above,'
There's no alternative, alas! but 'shove,'
For 'move' and 'prove' are makeshifts at the best,
Though you must oft with them contented rest.
Suppose you write of something that doth gladden,
To find your choice is limited to 'sadden'
Or 'madden' makes you mad as any hatter,
And fit your head against the wall to batter:
Then too when you have said your love's a pattern,
It's hard to find that you must drag in 'slattern';
'Tis Hobson's choice; as also 'tis with amorous,
To which the only rhyme, alas! is 'clamorous.'
When you are praising Amaryllis' beauty
What can you do with 'sooty,' or with 'duty'?
Or when you've said your love is quite obdurate,
How in the world are you to faring in 'curate'?
Sometimes a lovely line that ends in silver
I've written, but to find no word like 'dilver'
Or 'quilver' doth exist—so most forego it,
A sacrifice to vex the mildest poet!
Suppose you write about your mistress' window,
The only rhyme that you will find is 'Lindo,'
And though an actor of some little fame
Owns that cognomen—Frank is his front name—
To bring him in it would the cleverest tease,
Except in rhymes like Ingoldsby's—or these.
As hard the case is when you talk of chimney,
For what's the use of such a rhyme as 'Rhymney'?
Or such a makeshift as a 'slim-or-trim-knee'?
So handicaps poor rhymers as our own,
Or causes them so much to sweat and swear
When seeking for the rhyme that is not there:
By this at every turn the poet's baffled,
As I am now—for how to bring in 'scaffold'
Would puzzle even Swinburne—so would 'raffled'
And these are all the rhymes that you can use—
A pretty choice to set before the muse!
If you're in love you have to lug in 'dove,'
'Her glove,' or else appeal to 'heaven above,'
There's no alternative, alas! but 'shove,'
For 'move' and 'prove' are makeshifts at the best,
Though you must oft with them contented rest.
Suppose you write of something that doth gladden,
To find your choice is limited to 'sadden'
Or 'madden' makes you mad as any hatter,
And fit your head against the wall to batter:
Then too when you have said your love's a pattern,
It's hard to find that you must drag in 'slattern';
'Tis Hobson's choice; as also 'tis with amorous,
To which the only rhyme, alas! is 'clamorous.'
When you are praising Amaryllis' beauty
What can you do with 'sooty,' or with 'duty'?
Or when you've said your love is quite obdurate,
How in the world are you to faring in 'curate'?
Sometimes a lovely line that ends in silver
I've written, but to find no word like 'dilver'
Or 'quilver' doth exist—so most forego it,
A sacrifice to vex the mildest poet!
Suppose you write about your mistress' window,
The only rhyme that you will find is 'Lindo,'
And though an actor of some little fame
Owns that cognomen—Frank is his front name—
To bring him in it would the cleverest tease,
Except in rhymes like Ingoldsby's—or these.
As hard the case is when you talk of chimney,
For what's the use of such a rhyme as 'Rhymney'?
Or such a makeshift as a 'slim-or-trim-knee'?
Sometimes the rhymes, though numerous enough,
All your attempts to couple them rebuff,
For 'tis a fact all poets are aware of
In fifty rhymes you may not find a pair of
Them which will fitly chime with one another,
Choose which you will, one seems at odds with t'other.
As oft with man and wife, they take delight
In showing off their mutual scorn and spite.
All your attempts to couple them rebuff,
For 'tis a fact all poets are aware of
In fifty rhymes you may not find a pair of
Them which will fitly chime with one another,
Choose which you will, one seems at odds with t'other.
As oft with man and wife, they take delight
In showing off their mutual scorn and spite.
But here I'll own that 'tis not always so—
Sometimes your rhymes will come without a throe,
For they'll present themselves both apt and numerous,
Sorted together in a way quite humorous:
What could be better than such rhymes as 'drunk,
Sunk, bunk,' et cetera, not forgetting 'monk,'
On all of which the changes you can ring
Just like—just like — oh, just like anything!
Then when you chance to end a line with 'fumble,'
A splendid choice you have in 'mumble, tumble,'
And several others, not forgetting 'Bumble.'[1]
The very words have such a humorous pathos—
(A contradiction is it? well, say bathos)
That even a tyro in the rhyming art
Easily finds the first rhyme's counterpart,
And feels at once that he's a heaven-born poet,
And vows the ignorant world shall quickly know it,
Taking for inspiration what is due
To the rhymes alone—but so perhaps would you.
Sometimes your rhymes will come without a throe,
For they'll present themselves both apt and numerous,
Sorted together in a way quite humorous:
What could be better than such rhymes as 'drunk,
Sunk, bunk,' et cetera, not forgetting 'monk,'
On all of which the changes you can ring
Just like—just like — oh, just like anything!
Then when you chance to end a line with 'fumble,'
A splendid choice you have in 'mumble, tumble,'
And several others, not forgetting 'Bumble.'[1]
The very words have such a humorous pathos—
(A contradiction is it? well, say bathos)
That even a tyro in the rhyming art
Easily finds the first rhyme's counterpart,
And feels at once that he's a heaven-born poet,
And vows the ignorant world shall quickly know it,
Taking for inspiration what is due
To the rhymes alone—but so perhaps would you.
"Well, sir! now you've described the rhymer's woes,
What remedy for them do you propose?
Would you our native tongue Italianate
Unskilful rhymers to accommodate?
Rob it of all its rugged strength and power
To make it fitter for a lady's bower?
Create new rhymes to ease the poet's task,
His laziness and emptiness to mask?"
What remedy for them do you propose?
Would you our native tongue Italianate
Unskilful rhymers to accommodate?
Rob it of all its rugged strength and power
To make it fitter for a lady's bower?
Create new rhymes to ease the poet's task,
His laziness and emptiness to mask?"
No, my good friend! our language rough and strong
No equal owns for music and for song
When handled by a true son of Apollo!
What matter though it soundeth harsh and hollow
When poetasters use it! 'Twas my end
In seeming to decry it, to commend,
As lovers will sometimes each other rally
With many a bantering and witty sally,
Their tender accents all the time revealing
The love that lurks beneath their words' concealing.—
I want no better, more expressive tongue
Than that in which our master, Shakespeare, sung;
Give me a spark of his immortal fire
And 'tis the only favour I'll desire;
The fates whate'er they will may then deny,
And I their bounty still will magnify.
No equal owns for music and for song
When handled by a true son of Apollo!
What matter though it soundeth harsh and hollow
When poetasters use it! 'Twas my end
In seeming to decry it, to commend,
As lovers will sometimes each other rally
With many a bantering and witty sally,
Their tender accents all the time revealing
The love that lurks beneath their words' concealing.—
I want no better, more expressive tongue
Than that in which our master, Shakespeare, sung;
Give me a spark of his immortal fire
And 'tis the only favour I'll desire;
The fates whate'er they will may then deny,
And I their bounty still will magnify.
1899
- ↑ (But you must not forget the muse decrees
In serious verse you can't use words like these;
There's something in their very sound to tickle us,
And render the most solemn verse ridiculous.)