If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played <br />Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; <br />That the ballad you sing is but merely 'conveyed' <br />From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; <br />That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score <br />That is not as out-worn as the 'Wandering Jew,' <br />Make answer-Beethoven could scarcely do more- <br />That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! <br /> <br />If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade <br />Are simply 'adapted' from other men's lore; <br />That-plainly to speak of a 'spade' as a 'spade'- <br />You've 'stolen' your grouping from three or from four; <br />That (however the writer the truth may deplore), <br />'Twas Gainsborough painted your 'Little Boy Blue'; <br />Smile only serenely-though cut to the core- <br />For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! <br /> <br />And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed <br />If they whisper your Epic-'Sir Eperon d'Or'- <br />Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed <br />In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; <br />That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore <br />That you 'lift' or 'accommodate' all that you do; <br />Take heart-though your Pegasus' withers be sore- <br />For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! <br /> <br />POSTSCRIPTUM-And you, whom we all so adore, <br />Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!- <br />One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . . <br />And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!<br /><br />Henry Austin Dobson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ballad-e-of-imitation/
