The Brothers: By A Scotch Bard And English Reviewer

I AM two brothers with one face,
So which is the real man who can trace?
(My wrongs are raging inside of me.)
Here are some poets and they sell,
Therefore revenge becomes me well.
(Oh Robert—Thomas is dread to see.)
Of course you know it's a burning shame,
But of my last books the press makes game!
(My wrongs are boiling inside of me.)
So at least all other bards I'll slate
Till no one sells but the Laureate.
(Oh Robert—Thomas is dread to see.)
I took a beast of a poet's tome
And nailed a cheque, and brought them home;
(My wrongs were howling inside of me.)
And after supper, in lieu of bed,
I wound wet towels round my head.
(Oh Robert—Thomas is dread to see.)
Of eyelids kissed and all the rest,
And rosy cheeks that lie on one's breast,
(My wrongs were yelling inside of me)
I told the worst that pen can tell,—
And Strahan and Company loved me well.
(Oh Robert—Thomas is dread to see.)
I crowed out loud in the silent night,
I made my digs so sharp and bright:
(My wrongs were gnashing inside of me.)
In our Contemptible Review
I struck the beggar through and through.
(Oh Robert—Thomas is dread to see.)
I tanned his hide and combed his head,
And that bard, for one, I left for dead.
(My wrongs are hooting inside of me.)
And now he's wrapped in a printer's sheet,
Let's fling him at our Public's feet.
(Oh Robert—Thomas is dread to see.)