If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played
Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;
That the ballad you sing is but merely 'conveyed'
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score
That is not as out-worn as the 'Wandering Jew,'
Make answer-Beethoven could scarcely do more-
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem