I HATE the vast array of 'modern' things,
Gilt and pale purple, yellow, pink, and white;
Dull imitations and a thousand light
And weightless books of verse and copyings.
There are so many! Every season brings
A thousand fashions new and with delight
Proclaims them beautiful; till I take flight
And turn me to the masters and the kings.
And yet they will not let the masters be;
I find my Walton in a showy dress;
Find all the bright, old-age simplicity
Bedecked and botched; the years of good Queen Bess
Are made the dull philistine's property;
And Burns is 'popularly' sent to press.