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IN far Elizabethan days
(Ho! By my Halidome! Gadzooks!)
Lord Bacon wrote his own essays,
And lots of other people's books;
Annexing as a pseudonym
Each author's name that suited him.
All notoriety he'd shirk,
Nor sought for literary credit,
Although the best of Shakespeare's work
Was his. (For Mrs. Gallup said it,
And she, poor lady, I suppose,
Has read the whole of it, and knows.)
Such was his kind, unselfish plan,
That he allowed a rude, unshaven,
Ill-educated actor man
To style himself the Bard of Avon;
Altho' 'twas he and not this fellow
Who wrote "The Tempest" and "Othello."
For right throughout his works there is
A cipher hid, which makes it certain
That all Pope's "Iliad" is his,
And the "Anatomy" of Burton;
There's not a volume you can name
To which he has not laid a claim.
He is responsible, I wot,
For Euclid's lucid demonstrations,
The early works of Walter Scott,
And the Aurelian "Meditations";
Also "The House with Seven Gables"
And most of Æsop's (so-called) Fables.
And once, when he annoyed the Queen,
And wished to gain the royal pardon,
He wrote his masterpiece; I mean
That work about her German Garden;
And published, just before his death,
The "Visits of Elizabeth."
Yet peradventure we are wrong,
For just as probable the chance is
That all these volumes may belong
To someone else, and not to Francis.
I think,—tho' I may be mistaken,—
That Shakespeare wrote the works of Bacon.
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If you approach the Mosque of Fame,
And seek to climb its tallest steeple,
Just lodge a literary claim
Against the works of other people.
And though the Press may not receive it,
A few old ladies will believe it.
For instance, I of proof could bring
Sufficient to convince the layman
That I had written ev'rything
Attributed to Stanley Weyman.
In common justice I should pocket
The royalties of S. R. Crockett.
And anyone can plainly see,
Without the wit of Machiavelli,
That "Hall Caines look alike to me,"
Since I am Ouida and Corelli.
Yes, I am Rudyard Kipling, truly,
And the immortal Mr. Dooley. |
