Classic Poem

Ballinagarde was a house to be sure
With windows that went from the ceiling to flure,
And fish in the river and hens in the yard
And Croker was master of Ballinagarde.

There were mares in the meadows: the grass was so good
That cows never tired of chewing the cud;
One mouthful sufficed all the sheep on the sward;
They forced them to fatten at Ballinagarde.

So close and convenient and wide were his grounds
He could hunt with the Tipps or the Waterford hounds;
And many's the cup and the Horse Show award
That shone on the sideboard in Ballinagarde.

He bought his own whiskey and brewed his own ale
That foamed up like beastings that thicken the pail.
No fiddler no more nor the man with his card
Was ever sent empty from Ballinagarde.

His daughter got married at sweet twenty-two:
To lose her was more than her father could do.
To give her away it had gone very hard,
You could tell that by Croker of Ballinagarde.

The wedding was over a week and a day
Before the last guest could be driven away;
For everyone's going he tried to retard:
" What ails ye? " said Croker of Ballinagarde.

One day when out hunting and going like fire
His horse was flung down — Oh, bad scrant to the wire!
And something in Croker was broken or marred,
So the parson was sent for to Ballinagarde.

The parson remarked as the grounds he druv through
" The land's in good heart. What a beautiful view!
It's but what I'm thinking 'twill go very hard
To comfort the owner of Ballinagarde. "

He tried to persuade him and make him resigned,
On Heavenly mansions to fasten his mind.
" There's a Land that is Fairer than this, " he declared.
" I doubt it! " said Croker of Ballinagarde.