I do not write for love of pelf, <br />Nor lust for phantom fame; <br />I do not rhyme to please myself, <br />Nor yet to win acclaim: <br />No, strange to say it is my plan, <br />What gifts I have, to lavish <br />Upon a simple working man <br /> MACTAVISH. <br /> <br />For that's the rather smeary name, <br />Of dreary toil a hinter, <br />That heads the galley proofs that came <br />This morning from my printer; <br />My patient pencil much they need, <br />Yet how my eyes they ravish, <br />As at the top of each I read: <br /> MACTAVISH. <br /> <br />Who is the meek and modest man, <br />Who puffs no doubt a pipe, <br />And has my manuscript to scan, <br />And put in magic type? <br />Somehow I'm glad that he is not <br />Iberian or Slavish - <br />I hail him as a brother Scot, <br /> MACTAVISH. <br /> <br />I do not want to bore him with <br />My work, I make it snappy; <br />For even though his name were Smith, <br />I'd like him to be happy. <br />I hope, because I'm stumped for rhyme, <br />He will not think me knavish, <br />If I should call him just this time: <br /> MACTAVISH. <br /> <br />Forgive me, Friend Mactavish. I <br />No doubt have cost you curses; <br />I'm sorry for you as you try <br />To put my type in verses; <br />And though new names I know you by, <br />When of new books creator, <br />I'll always look on you as my <br /> COLLABORATOR.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mactavish/
