Classic Poem

as spoke by Lord Mount Cashell at Mr. Sheridan's School in Capell Street, 1718, that Tragedy being then Publickly Perform'd by his Scholars.
Grandmothers, mothers, aunts and sisters dear,
Before your seats of judgment we appear:
Judges and jury both we'd have you be;
Condemn our Master, not our tragedy.

With one consent we this indictment draw;
Our cause is just as is your law.
When birchin twigs afflict our tender parts,
Where can we fly but to your tender hearts?
There we can refuge find when danger's nigh;
From besoms to your bosoms we must fly.

The first great grievance of our tyrant's reign
Is that he won't permit us to complain:
If so, we're sure to pay for our appeals;
And they're revenged upon our harmless tails.
And, what is worse, he ridicules our woe:
" Go tell Mama again! Why don't you go?
I love to whip a fav'rite; that's my joy —
A mother's favorite, not a father's boy. "

Next should we quibble, curse, or lie, or swear,
Oh Heavens above, how he does rant and stare!
Passion flies out at both his rolling eyes;
Deaf to our prayers, the stentor loudly cries,
" Up with him, Sir, " for that's his term of art.
Then up we go — and oh how we do smart.
Next should we pull a wig, or play in church,
Or laugh, next day we're sure to feel his birch.
Should we break windows or with brickbats pelt,
Again this curst machine, his rod, is felt.
Can't we knock out our brains for him I wonder,
But he must cut and slash our flesh asunder?
We can't an orchard rob, or plague a neighbor,
But he must come and our poor backs belabor.
Nor can we in a stall a cobbler smoke,
Although it is an inoffensive joke,
But our soft hides with welts are blistered o'er,
As if the cobbler mended what he tore.
Should we but tear a book to make a kite,
Which as I think exalts the poet's flight,
He makes it equal to the greatest crime,
Although Longinus teaches the Sublime.
Nay, what is worse, if we neglect our books,
With lash severe and terrible rebukes
Our nameless parts he scarifies and rends,
As if we studied with our t' other ends.

If he taught stumps or logs, why then he might
Whip 'em with rods — in this he would be right —
But to teach human flesh by help of wood,
I cannot understand it for my blood.
Is this the way to cultivate our knowledge,
To make us run the gauntlet to the college?
Will this exalt us into learned men,
To sweep with brooms the cobwebs off our brain?
No, no! 'Twill never do; I think 'tis better
That we should never see nor know one letter.
I've brought a rod to show you. Now see here,
How can poor children such a scorpion bear?
'Tis long enough to drive a coach and four;
I vow the very sight on't makes me sore.
Revenge, Revenge, to you we loudly cry;
Condemn the tyrant instantly to die.
Here he's within; let him no longer live;
One moment is too long for his reprieve;
With scissors, bodkins, all at once attack him.
Depend upon't, not one of us will back him.