Classic Poem

I.

Fait, honey, in Ireland, I'd find out a flaw
In each capias, each battery, and action;
For dere — oh my soul — satisfaction is law,
And, what's better, fait law's satisfaction.

When to cut your friend's trote dat affronts you's the word,
From that argument none will be shrinking;
For we clear knotty points by the point of the sword,
And make flaws large enough with our pinking.

And great are the pleasures it yield,
While our seconds are hard at our back,
And boldly we both take the field,
Wid our tierce and our caite — sa, sa, whack!

II.

Arrah troth were a joman pursu'd at his heel
By a constable, fait, or a baily,
To be sure in three minutes the laef would not feel
O'er his sconce a oght bit of the aiy.

Den for act ons and bonds, and dat charming long life
Of returns, that in law out a figure,
Oh we make our returns by a turn of the wrist,
And draw bonds by the pull of a trigger.

And great are the pleasures it yield,
When our seconds are hard at our back,
When boldly we both take the field,
Wid our tierce and our carte — sa, sa, whack!