Page 38 - Poetry-Books

Ad Interim – Ad Diem – Ad Damnum!

We were trying to live upon pottage,
And rather poor pottage at that,
And discovering that love in a cottage
Does not, in itself, make one fat.
But this state of affairs was quite transient;
We were merely awaiting the day
When the manager’s note should announce that
He’d accepted our Play.

How often we read the rough copy,
More firmly convinced every time,
That there never was such combination
Of reason and smooth-flowing rhyme.
How often our fancy disposed of
The sum ‘twas but right he should pay—
For such a production of genius—
Who accepted our Play!
At last came the day when the postman—
That commonplace herald of fate—
Brought the document, large and official,
For which we were learning to wait.
‘Twas not final—the manager merely
Considered it prudent to say,
That with the consent of the Public,
He would purchase our Play.

It should run for a week, if successful;
If not, it should stop at one night;
But if it succeeded he’d pay us
With pleasure, “whatever was right.”
We thought this was rather indefinite,
But then, there was no other way,
And besides, there could not be a doubt of
The success of our Play.
It came, that “first evening” of transport,
Of triumph, of terror, of woe,
Oh, why did the house turn so frigid?
Oh, why did they stare at us so?
Ah, where had the wit and the sparkle,
The satire, the naturalness, gone?

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