Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited

For such viands as your poet can provide,

(Which, as critics have occasionally stated,

Must be trying to a delicate inside,)

Once again are opportunities afforded

Of a banquet, or a dÉjeuner at least,

Once again your toleration is rewarded

By a literary feast!

You may think that Rudyard Kipling’s work is stronger,

Or that Chaucer’s may be rather more mature;

Byron’s lyrics are indubitably longer,

Robert Browning’s just a trifle more obscure;

But ’tis certain that no poems are politer,

Or more fitted for perusal in the home,

Than the verses of the unassuming writer

Of this memorable tome!

Austin Dobson is a daintier performer,

Andrew Lang is far more scholarly and wise,

Mr. Swinburne can, of course, be somewhat warmer,

Alfred Austin more amusing, if he tries;

But there’s no one in the world (and well you know it!)

Who can emulate the bard of whom we speak,

For the literary methods of our poet

Are admittedly unique!

Tho’ he shows no sort of penitence at breaking

Ev’ry rule of English grammar and of style,

(Not a rhyme is too atrocious for his making,

Not a metre for his purpose is too vile!)

Tho’ his treatment is essentially destructive,

And his taste a thing that no one can admire,

There is something incontestably seductive

In the music of his lyre!

Gentle Reader, some apologies are needed

For depositing this volume on your desk,

Since the author has undoubtedly exceeded

All the limits of legitimate burlesque,

And we look with very genuine affection

To a Public who, for better or for worse,

Will relieve us of this villainous collection

Of abominable verse!