To the Common Room

My very noble and approved good masters

Placetne, Domini? — in far Lahore
  I wait your verdict, 'mid the palms and roses, 
Much as I did those judgments writ of yore
  Upon my 'proses'.

Blue-pencil X's when constructions queer
  Ran riot down the inky, thumb-marked page;
And wondrous words that moved too oft, I fear,
  Your righteous rage.

Red-pencil marks when half a dozen rules,
  Smashed at one stroke, broke down your patience, too, 
And left me, in the silence of the Schools,
  With 'lines to do'.

These were your judgments—well deserved enough 
  By one who daily scorned his Latin Primer.
What is your verdict on the latest stuff 
  Sent by this rhymer?

Placetne, Domini?—'neath India's sky
  I wait your answer, laymen and divines;
And, as of old, upon your table I 
  'Show up my lines'.

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