Page 11 - Poetry-Books

The Art of Book-Keeping

How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, that’s lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers—folks that fish
With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favorite tome,
But never read it through,—
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.

Behold the bookshelf of a dunce
Who borrows—never lends:
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.

New tales and novels you may shut
From view—‘t is all in vain;
They’re gone—and though the leaves are “cut”
They never “come again.”

For pamphlets lent I look around,
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that’s bound,
‘T is surely extra-gilt.

A circulating library
Is mine—my birds are flown;
There’s one odd volume left to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.

I, of my Spenser quite bereft,
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of Lamb I’ve but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my Bacon.

My Hall and Hill were levelled flat,
But Moore was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them Sprat,
They swallowed up my Pye.

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