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