True Diffidence

My boy, you may take it from me,
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man’s saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature’s the worst.
Though clever as clever can be –
A Crichton of early romance –
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.

Now take, for example, MY case:
I’ve a bright intellectual brain –
In all London city
There’s no one so witty –
I’ve thought so again and again.
I’ve a highly intelligent face –
My features cannot be denied –
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in – and why, sir?
I’m modesty personified!

As a poet, I’m tender and quaint –
I’ve passion and fervour and grace –
From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I’m diffident, modest, and shy!