SIMPKIN by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES

THEY tell me Simpkin is a saint
I've often wish'd he wasn't,
If'tis a note of that complaint
To look so d—d unpleasant.

The world's no doubt a sorry place
For Simpkin; and, by Jabez,
The merest glimpsing of his face
Will wring and writhe a baby's.

A lout he is, a kill-joy loon
Where wit and mirth forgather;
In company I'd just as soon
Sit by an old bell-wether.

But Simpkin, I have heard men state,
Is kindly and well-meaning;
'Tis that his goodness is so great
It takes so much o' screening.

I would the fiend, that made his skin
So yellow dry and scurvy,
Had turn'd the creature outside-in
Or set him topsy-turvy.

And yet since nothing's made in vain,
And we must judge our brother
Unfitted for this world, 'tis plain
He's fitted for another;

Where angels glorious to behold
Shall come, as he supposes,
To lead him through the streets o' gold
And crown his head with roses.

And if to Simpkin it befal
Just as he thinks, so be it!
I would not grudge the man at all,
But should not press to see it.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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