Classic Poem

A piper once cou'd sit his strain,
To please the rustic ear;
At ev'ning gambols on the plain,
Or at the busy fair.

At ev'ry wake a buxom rout,
Around his chanter strove;
As Goldsmith says, " by holding out, "
To prove their strength of love.

When Pat his wishes all hath crown'd
In wedlock with his Sue;
No constant dove wou'd coo around,
Unless he chanted too.

When Strangman's pale in mellow streams,
Hath warm'd the lab'ring throng,
With plaudits rough, and loud acclaims,
All echo'd round his song.

Now quite elate with village fame,
He panted for renown;
And flush'd with hope, he boldly came,
T'exhibit in the town.

Confiding in his former bays,
In public he appears;
But harshly do his rustic lays,
Greet on refined ears.

His laurels crop'd ere they cou'd bloom,
He humbl'd his career,
Where, round the smoke envelop'd room,
Cits quaff their ev'ning beer.

Here smoothly past his time away,
Whilst novelty cou'd please:
And heedless of the evil day,
He thought himself at ease.

But oh! how frail is mortal joy,
When built on sandy ground?
His labour'd quavers soon annoy,
And flat seems ev'ry sound.

Now banish'd hence, his pipe forsook,
He passengers assails;
Or 'prentice boys at Donnybrook,
For scanty bread regales.

His hope of fame being now all o'er,
His cash and raiment fled;
Reluctantly he sought once more
The hamlet whence he sped.

But Fame, swift harbinger of ill!
Out ran his tardy pace;
And sounded thro' each neighb'ring ville,
His failure and disgrace.

All chide his folly, mock his pride,
And spurn his former strain;
For reputation once decry'd,
Can never rise again.

So fares the Poet who might please
His neighbour, or a friend,
Who with indulgence lavish praise,
And foibles e'en commend.

By slow degrees, a thirst of fame,
A fav'ring few inspire;
Whilst partial friendship fans the flame
Which kindles with desire.

No more content in humble strain
To wield his feeble pen,
Poetic honours he must gain,
And rank with letter'd men.

Dear Hope, that sweet delusive maid,
With her bewitching smiles,
In airy visions full array'd,
His senses all beguiles:

Above the vulgar throng he flies,
Whilst fancy'd laurels bloom;
And eager grasps the gaudy prize,
Nor heeds approaching doom.

Forth from the press, in splendid gear,
His darling stanzas fly;
As sparkling insects just appear,
To flutter, fade and die.

Thus has ambition's busy sting,
Provok'd untoward flights,
From Icarus with vent'rous wing,
To Him who now indites,

Then censure not, but lend thine aid,
If still survives His name,
Nor war it with the peaceful dead,
If " past is all His fame. "