Page 193 - YB1900

I spend '",cary hours in rhyming one 'Nord, For the muse is a slippery sprite; And just when you think you are safe on the roaci, She will vanish-away ill the night. I succeeded at the last all my thoughts to condense, As I sat at my table alone; And I find that the verse is complete in its sense, But the metre, ah ! where is it gone? So I tackle the metre, and hustle the rhyme, And both are quite hard to control; Yet I try with my might still to bring them to time, But I've muddled them both in a hole. I throw down my pen with a sigh of content As I think of my task thus near ended; But, alas! when I read it, I plainly can see, It is not the bright thing 1 intended -:·169 -J-