Far other reasons urge me to reveal
My feelings on this matter--to assail your
Too common practice, and say why I feel
Your daily efforts are a daily failure;
Your paper by its columns and its size confuses me,
And worse--there's nothing in it in the least amuses me.
Can you indeed in seriousness suppose--
To me, I tell you, naught could be absurder--
That anywhere at all there can be those
Who read the noisome details of a murder,
Or take delight in knowing that in such a county
Some teeming, triple mother earns the Royal Bounty?
Ibsenity! Amid the maze of words
I find it difficult to pick my way right;
_This_ critic at the Master only girds,
_That_ promptly hails him as the "premier playwright."
Whilst I don't mind confessing that I swear right roundly
At mention of a subject that I hate profoundly.
Then Parliament--without the slightest doubt
Of all dull things the dullest. What could be more
Distressing than to have to read about
The coming (?) KEAY, whose other name is SEYMOUR?
And now that Patriots' speeches flow with milk and honey,
They're very much less Irish, and of course less funny.
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