Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this loud clown, The darling of the glad and gaping town?
This is that dubious hero of the press Whose slangy tongue and insolent address Were spiced to rouse on Sunday afternoon The man with yellow journals round him strewn. We laughed and dozed, then roused and read again, And vowed O. Henry funniest of men. He always worked a triple-hinged surprise To end the scene and make one rub his eyes.
He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer. He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.
His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean, Step from the pages of the magazine With slapstick or sombrero or with cane: The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain. They over-act each part. But at the height Of banter and of canter and delight The masks fall off for one queer instant there And show real faces: faces full of care And desperate longing: love that's hot or cold; And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold. The masks go back. 'Tis one more joke. Laugh on! The goodly grown-up company is gone.
No doubt had he occasion to address The brilliant court of purple-clad Queen Bess, He would have wrought for them the best he knew And led more loftily his actor-crew. How coolly he misquoted. 'Twas his art — Slave-scholar, who misquoted — from the heart. So when we slapped his back with friendly roar Æsop awaited him without the door, — Æsop the Greek, who made dull masters laugh With little tales of fox and dog and calf .
And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd With something nigh to chivalry he trod And oft the drear and driven would defend — The little shopgirls' knight unto the end. Yea, he had passed, ere we could understand The blade of Sidney glimmered in his hand. Yea, ere we knew, Sir Philip's sword was drawn With valiant cut and thrust, and he was gone.