I do not write for love of pelf, br Nor lust for phantom fame; br I do not rhyme to please myself, br Nor yet to win acclaim: br No, strange to say it is my plan, br What gifts I have, to lavish br Upon a simple working man br MACTAVISH. br br For that's the rather smeary name, br Of dreary toil a hinter, br That heads the galley proofs that came br This morning from my printer; br My patient pencil much they need, br Yet how my eyes they ravish, br As at the top of each I read: br MACTAVISH. br br Who is the meek and modest man, br Who puffs no doubt a pipe, br And has my manuscript to scan, br And put in magic type? br Somehow I'm glad that he is not br Iberian or Slavish - br I hail him as a brother Scot, br MACTAVISH. br br I do not want to bore him with br My work, I make it snappy; br For even though his name were Smith, br I'd like him to be happy. br I hope, because I'm stumped for rhyme, br He will not think me knavish, br If I should call him just this time: br MACTAVISH. br br Forgive me, Friend Mactavish. I br No doubt have cost you curses; br I'm sorry for you as you try br To put my type in verses; br And though new names I know you by, br When of new books creator, br I'll always look on you as my br COLLABORATOR.