  It does not fall to every man To be a minor poet, But Inksby-Slingem he was one, And wished the world to know it. In almost every magazine His dainty verses might be seen. He'd take a piece of paper—blank, With nothing writ upon it— And soon a triolet 'twould be A ballade, or a sonnet. Pantoums,—in fact, whate'er you please, This poet wrote, with greatest ease. By dozens he'd turn poems out, To Editors he'd bring 'em, Till, quite a household word became The name of Inksby-Slingem. A mild exterior had he, With dove-like personality. His hair was dark and lank and long, His necktie large and floppy (Vide his portrait in the sketch "A-smelling of a Poppy"), And unto this young man befell The strange adventure I'll now tell. Aboard the good ship "Goschen," Which foundered, causing all but he To perish, in the ocean, And many days within a boat Did Inksby-Slingem sadly float— Yes, many days, until with joy He saw a ship appearing; A skull and crossbones flag it bore, And towards him it was steering. "This rakish-looking craft," thought he, "I fear a pirate ship must be." It was. Manned by a buccaneer. And, from the very first, he Could see the crew were wicked men, All scowling and bloodthirsty; Indeed, he trembled for his neck When hoisted to their upper deck. That he was treated—very. They turned his pockets inside-out; They stole his Waterbury; His scarf-pin, and his golden rings, His coat and—er—his other things. Then, they ransacked his carpet-bag, To add to his distresses, And tumbled all his papers out, His poems, and MSS.'s. He threw himself upon his knees, And cried: "I pray you, spare me these!" "These? What are these?" the Pirate cried. "I've not the slightest notion." He read a verse or two—and then Seemed filled with strange emotion. He read some more; he heaved a sigh; A briny tear fell from his eye. This poem 'To a Brother!' It makes me think of childhood's days, My old home, and my mother." He read another poem through, And passed it to his wondering crew. They read it, and all—all but two— Their eyes were soon a-piping; It was a most affecting sight To see those pirates wiping Their eyes and noses in their griefs On many-coloured handkerchiefs, * * * To make a lengthy story short, The gentle poet's verses Quite won those men from wicked ways, From piratings, and curses; And all of them, so I've heard tell, Became quite, quite respectable. Than e'er before much worse is For he is now a publisher, And "pirates" Slingem's verses; The other drives a "pirate" 'bus, Continuing—alas!—to "cuss."
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