Classic Poem

Let Kate and Rose and sleepy Ned,
If he can raise his stupid head,
And Shela too, if she has time,
Attend a little to my rhyme,
And I'll give you a choice receipt
To save the Doctor's wine and meat —
To save yourself a world of trouble
In boiling praties to a bubble,
In roasting woodcocks to a turn
Before a fire that will not burn.
Now my receipt, dear friends, is this —
For which I ought to get a kiss;
If Rosy would but deign to give it,
I'd crown her with a sprig of privet,
The fairest privet in the garden,
For which she wouldn't give a farden.
The Doctor, many years ago,
Resolved to plough, resolved to sow.
He ploughed and sowed, but all in vain;
The rooks and crows devoured the grain —
I mean the seed when it was sown,
Which cost the Doctor many a groan.
A farmer by experience taught
(Experience isn't got for naught)
Advised him to collect old rags.
His lady rummaged all the bags;
Old wigs, old waistcoats and old coats,
The pockets stuffed with classic notes;
Old cassocks too and cast-off bands
Were put into the farmer's hands;
A waistcoat soon was stuffed with straw,
And such a paunch you never saw.
He ran a pole up through the middle;
The face was made of an old fiddle
With saucer eyes that would affright
Old Nick himself in any night.
This figure formed with so much care
Was hung aloft in open air;
The crows beheld it from afar,
And winged their flight to Mullingar.
The Doctor sowed and reaped his grain;
Now listen to another strain —
Oft as the Dean sleeps at your castle,
You know that everyone's his vassal.
The Doctor's self cannot escape;
The Dean's as peevish as an ape.
It's " Ned, do this, " it's " Ned, do that, "
And " Where's that idle rascal, Pat? "
You know, yourself, what lives you lead;
It is a wretched one, indeed.
Now, to get rid of him, attend;
I needn't tell you I'm your friend.
As he's expected every day,
And as he always comes one way,
Hang out for once a tattered shift:
You'll see no more of Doctor Swift.