Bernard Shaw

Shaw wrote a brilliant article,And every one did smile,Which made him tear his hair, for heWas serious all the while.

He wrote again in jesting mood,But laughter there was none of it,His wit had such a serious maskThat none could see the fun of it.

In 'The Ring' folks believed that a secret profoundWas hid, which when known all the world would astound;But, alas! if the truth Bernard Shaw has revealed,No more than a mare's-nest was in it concealed!

Shaw says that when he pits himselfAgainst our greatest poetThe bard proves but a feeble elf—I only wish he'd show it!

Only one little thing preventsHis triumph o'er our Will—Nature, that gave him wit and sense,Denied the poet's skill!

Not his the poet's gift—yet, to be fair,Of talent no man has a larger share;His brain's a radium battery charged with wit,Which it doth inexhaustibly emit,And in it too both light and heat combine,And with a lustre never-darkened shine.The world's his football which he kicks about,Devoid alike of reverence or doubt;Nothing's too serious to be made a jest of,No cause so much advanced he's not abreast of;No paradox so great he'll not defend it,Nothing so holy that he will not end it:And though you at his strange gyrations blink,He forces you, spite of yourself, to think,And that's a service than which none is greater,Though dull men hate so rough an educater.I find in him, I own, full many a flaw,Yet say most heartily—Thank heaven for Shaw!