O bard of fortune, you deem me noughtBut a mark for your careless scorn.For I am the echo-less grave of thoughtThat is strangled before it's born.You think perchance that I am a doomWhich only a dunce should dread,Nor dream I've been the dishonoured tombOf the noblest and brightest dead.
The brightest fancies that e'er can flyFrom the labouring minds of menAre often written in lines awry,And marred by a blundering pen;And thus it comes that I gain a partOf what to the world is loss,Of genius lost for the want of art,Of pearls that are set in dross.
And though I am of a lowly birthMy fame has been cheaply bought,A power am I, for I rob the earthOf the brightest gems of thought;The Press gains much of my lawful share,I am wronged without redress,But I have revenge, for I think it fairThat I should plunder the Press.
You'd pause in wonder to read behindThe lines of some songs I see;The soul of the singer I often findIn songs that are thrown to me.But the song of the singer I bury deepWith the scrawl of the dunce and clown,And both from the eyes of the world I keep,And the hopes of both I drown.