My Boy, You May Take It From Me

My boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man’s saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature’s the worst.
Though clever as clever can be —
A Crichton of early romance —
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance!
If you wish in the world to advance, Your merits you’re bound to enhance,
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance!
Now take, for example, my case:
I’ve a bright intellectual brain —
In all London city
There’s no one so witty —
I’ve thought so again and again.
I’ve a highly intelligent face —
My features cannot be denied —
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in — and why, sir?
I’m modesty personified!
If you wish in the world to advance, etc.
As a poet, I’m tender and quaint —
I’ve passion and fervour and grace -From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint: Though none are accomplished as I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I’m diffident, modest, and shy!
If you wish in the world to advance, etc.
BOTH.
If you wish in the world to advance, etc.