LONG, long ago I had an aunt

Who took me to the play:

An act of kindness that I shan't

Forget for many a day.

I was a youngster at the time,

Just verging on my teens,

And fancied that it must be "prime"

To go behind the scenes.

I ventured to express the same

In quite a candid way,

And shock'd my aunt—a sober dame,

Though partial to the play.

'Twas just the moment when Macbeth

(Whose voice resembled Kean's)

Had finished planning Duncan's death,

And rushed behind the scenes.

I recollect that evening yet,

And how my aunt was grieved;

And, oh! I never shall forget

The lecture I received.

It threw a light upon the class

Of knowledge that one gleans

By being privileged to pass

His time behind the scenes.

The Heroine I worshipp'd then

Was fifty, I should think;

My Lord the commonest of men,'

My Lover fond of drink.

The Fairies I believed so fair

Were not by any means

The kind of people one would care

To meet behind the scenes.

I cannot boast that I enjoy

The stage-illusion still;

I'm growing far too old a boy

To laugh or cry at will.

But I can cast a critic's eye

On mimic kings and queens,

And nothing ever makes me sigh

To get behind the scenes.

Ah! shallow boastings—false regrets!

The world is but a stage

Where Man, poor player, struts and frets

From infancy to age;

And then leaps blindly, in a breath,

The space that intervenes

Between our stage-career and Death,

Who lurks behind the scenes!