Henry Austin Dobson

18 January 1840 – 2 September 1921 / Plymouth

The Ballad[e] Of The Bore

I see him come from far,
And, sick with hopelessness,
Invoke some kindly star,-
I see him come, no less.
Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,-
Defend us from The Bard!

He knows nor let nor bar:
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,
I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,
He stands-as one on guard,
And reads-how volubly!-
Defend us from The Bard!

He reads-of Fates that mar,
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,
Of Maids that never bless,
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),-
Defend us from The Bard!


Prince Phoebus, all must die,
Or well- or evil-starred,
Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way-why?
Defend us from The Bard!
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