BALLADE OF NEW CRITICISM
(AFTER ANDREW LANG)
THERE'S a joy like the joy of a lark,
There’s a pleasure that’s known to the few,
’Tis to listen all day to the bark
Of a critic’s vitriolic review.
Corroding the centuries through,
It eats since the first poet sang,
And they cursed him, and called him a Jew,
Before the good zon of Lang.
These critics (their style, you remark,
Into forests of verbiage grew)
Ere Carroll invented the Snark
Were ready to eat me and you ;
They snorted, they snapped, and they slew,
They were mighty of quill and of slang,
Till they quenched the Philistian crew
Before the good zon of Lang.
Here’s an article mystic and dark
In a manner as fluent as glue,
Which (though lovers meet deep in a park,
The wearisome tome of it through)