THERE'S Binks, he is wearing the "mantle of Scott,"—
⁠His publishers so advertise.
I really can't say if it's truthful or not,
⁠I haven't had time to get wise.
I fancy, however, it isn't quite so,
⁠Tho' Binksy is walking on stilts.
For Scott never sported a mantle, altho'
⁠He frequently went out in kilts.

And Tompkins—a poet of passion—they say
⁠Is wearing the "shoes of John Keats."
I rather believe it is true from the play
⁠Of Tompkins's rhythmical feats.
I've noticed they move with a horrible limp
⁠As though he'd a cork-legged muse.
His gait has a very unmetrical crimp
⁠From wearing another man's shoes.

There's others who're wearing the left-over duds
⁠Of Byron and Shelley and Lamb.
I dare say there's some one who's wearing the studs
⁠Of old Mr. Omar Khayyam.
The collar of Dickens is one fellow's lot;
⁠Another's the rubbers of Poe:
And G. Harding Wiggles is said to have got
⁠The pot-hat of Daniel Defoe.

For me I care not for illustrious gowns.
⁠I want no one's mantle in mine.
A second-hand garment will fill me with frowns—
⁠Such offers I'll ever decline;
And if it so happens I take to the pen,
⁠Like certain mechanics I've known,
I hope at the last, when I come to "say when,"
They'll find that my clothes were my own.