THE CRITICS.

As a matter of fact, I am sure I can act, And so, When I go, To the show, Not the art of an Irving Seems wholly deserving, And though Booth were the star He'd have many a jar, If he heard the critique Which I frequently speak, As you Do, Too. Written deep in my heart Is a knowledge of art, For why? I've an eye Like a die. And where Raphael's paint Has bedizened some saint, I note his perspective Is sadly defective, And you? O, I know When you've looked on Corot The same Blame Came. And the world would have gained If my voice had been trained, For my ear Is severe, As I hear De Reszke and Patti. (I've heard 'em sing "ratty!") And the crowd has yelled "Bis!" When a call for police Should have shortened the score. Was there ever a more Absurd Word Heard? And I feel, now and then, I could handle a pen, For indeed, As I heed What I read, I observe many faults; Homer nods, Shakespere halts, Dante's sad, Pope is trite, Poe's mechanic, Holmes light, Yet so easy to do Is the thing, even you Might Write Quite Bright!