A Song Of Greek Prose

Thrice happy are those          Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--     Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;          For Liddell and Scott          Shall cumber them not,     Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.          But I, late at night,          By the very bad light     Of very bad gas, must painfully write          Some stuff that a Greek          With his delicate cheek     Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.          For when it is done,          I doubt if, for one,     I myself could explain how the meaning might run;          And as for the style--          Well, it's hardly worth while     To talk about style, where style there is none.          It was all very fine          For a poet divine     Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;          But the Prose that I sing          Is a different thing,     And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.          So away with Greek Prose,          The source of my woes!     (This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)          May Sargent be drowned          In the ocean profound,     And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!