I’d rather have my verses win
A place in common people’s hearts,
Who, toiling through the strife and din
Of life’s great thoroughfares, and marts,
May read some line my hand has penned;
Some simple verse, not fine, or grand,
But what their hearts can understand
And hold me henceforth as a friend,–
I’d rather win such quiet fame
Than by some fine thought, bolished so
But those of learned minds would know,
Just what the meaning of my song,–
To have the critics sound my name
In high-flown praises, loud and long.
I sing not for the critic’s ear,
But for the masses. If they hear
Despite the turmoil, noise, and strife
Some least low note that gladdens life,
I shall be wholly satisfied,
Though critics to the end deride.
