Classic Poem

Oi am in anguish this tide,
I cannot drink drams with éclat,
A maggot, blown in my inside,
Has published my secret to a'.
I cannot see going around
The lass o' the blithsomest e'e,
And that sunk my heart to the ground,
Like leaves from the top of a tree.

O my most beringletted belle,
'Tis I feel the want o' thee sore,
Gin a good home thou'st chosen thysel',
My blessing wi' thee evermore.
I'm sighing because thou art gone,
Like a wounded soldier in pain
On the battle-field lying undone,
And he'll ne'er go to battle again.

Like a stray from the flock it left me,
Like a man that will ne'er court a quean,
Thy tour under sail o'er the sea
Brought a tear shower quick from my e'en.
Better should I not feel it in sooth,
Thy beauty, thy sense, thy renown,
Or the dear tender charm of thy mouth,
That's sweeter than musical sound.

Every waif, that will hear of my plight,
Belittling my gift of mind,
Alleges I'm only a bard
That will ne'er build a stanza that's fine—
My grandfather paying his rent,
My sire with a pack heretofore—
They ponies could yoke to the plough,
And I'd carve a verse o'er five score.

Long, long has my light ceased to shine,
I'll not move my mind to a stave,
In a daze like a wrack of the brine
On the crests of the misty wave.
Missing thy talk at my side
Has changed the fair face of my sky,
With no sport, or gladness, or pride,
No vigour, war song, gallantry.

I'll not wake a song of fine art,
I'll not set a part to be sung,
I'll not raise a tune on the harp,
Or hark to the laugh of the young;
I'll not climb the path of the steep
With the leap that was mine heretofore,
But I'll reach there forever to sleep,
The hall of the bards of no more.