BALLADE OF ANGRY GALLERY FIRST-NIGHTERS

I WONDER in what quiet zone, The Shades on high are not irate, What Thespian temple, brick or stone, Shrines Jupiters who will not slate Pale authors still importunate, And timid actors blenching grey Beneath their grease-paints roseate— Where are the gods of yesterday? Where’s “Bravo, Hicks!” who held his own, Sans hoot or shout or wild debate, Declaiming in full, mellow tone Heroic lines on virtue’s state? Where’s comic Robson, Little-Great (Great Little spoils the rhyme’s array), Who ne’er incurred the High God’s hate?— Sped with the gods of yesterday. Where’s Poet Bunn, who roused no moan. Or dreadful booh expostulate By lyrics arduously thrown To give an o’er-light opera weight? Where does our Dion hibernate— The Boucicault of once-a-day, Master of his Hibernian fate?— Gone with his gods of yesterday.

LET’S candidly commiserate Playwrights and players turned to bay. Let’s also freely objurgate The gods who rule our latter day.