If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played br Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; br That the ballad you sing is but merely 'conveyed' br From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; br That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score br That is not as out-worn as the 'Wandering Jew,' br Make answer-Beethoven could scarcely do more- br That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! br br If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade br Are simply 'adapted' from other men's lore; br That-plainly to speak of a 'spade' as a 'spade'- br You've 'stolen' your grouping from three or from four; br That (however the writer the truth may deplore), br 'Twas Gainsborough painted your 'Little Boy Blue'; br Smile only serenely-though cut to the core- br For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! br br And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed br If they whisper your Epic-'Sir Eperon d'Or'- br Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed br In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; br That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore br That you 'lift' or 'accommodate' all that you do; br Take heart-though your Pegasus' withers be sore- br For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! br br POSTSCRIPTUM-And you, whom we all so adore, br Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!- br One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . .