Recipe For An Editor:

Take a personal hatred of authors,
    Mix this with a fiendish delight
In refusing all efforts of genius
    And maiming all poets on sight.

    - Life.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCCXII. Games.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CLI. Songs.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. LXVIII. Tales.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DLXXVII. Natural History.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Authors

The following is a recipe for an author:

Take the usual number of fingers,
Add paper, manila or white,
A typewriter, plenty of postage
And something or other to write.

    - Life.

Unknown

Oh, Editor, Editor,

Oh, Editor, Editor,
Awful and grand,
Who holdest our fate
In the palm of thy hand,
Dost ever reflect
How one day thy ghost
To an Editor awf'ler
And grander will post?
Before him a great
Golden scroll is spread wide,
And a bottomless waste-basket
Yawns at his side.
With a swift searching glance
He reads through thy soul,
Then he looks at the basket,
Then looks at the scroll;
He purses his lips
And nibbles his pen,
And frowns for one long
Awful moment--and then--
Oh, Editor!--think! if thy
Poor crumpled soul
Fall into the basket
And not in the scroll!

Oliver Herford

To The Reader Of 'University Notes'

Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
    As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
    With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
    Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'
And you think there is 'something the matter.'
    Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
    As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
    And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors.    Give us the credit
    Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,
    It isn't much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion
    That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
    And we found that our castles wer...

Robert Fuller Murray

To Dr. Delany, On The Libels Written Against Him.

1729

                                    - Tanti tibi non sit opaci
Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum. - Juv. iii, 54.

As some raw youth in country bred,
To arms by thirst of honour led,
When at a skirmish first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head aside, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart,
Till 'scaping oft without a wound
Lessens the terror of the sound;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops.
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame;
When first in print you see him dread
Each pop-gun levell'd at his head:
The lead yon critic's quill contains,
Is destined to beat out his brains:
As if he heard loud thunders roll,

Jonathan Swift

Recipe For A Parson:

To a cupful of negative goodness
    Add the pleasure of giving advice.
Sift in a peck of dry sermons,
    And flavor with brimstone or ice.

    - Life.

Unknown

The Editor's Guests.

The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care,
His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair,
His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head,
His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread:
There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals topped,
And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped;
There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and zephyrs,
And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers;
There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two,
And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it, or who?
There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous s...

William McKendree Carleton