Classic Poem

Mud hovels fringe the " fair-green" of this town,
A spot misnamed, at every season brown.
O'erspread with countless man and beast to-day
Which bellow, squeak, and shout, bleat, bray, and neigh.
The " jobbers" there, each more or less a rogue,
Noisy or smooth, with each his various brogue,
Cool wiry Dublin, Connaught's golden mouth,
Blunt Northern, plaintive sing-song of the South,
Feel cattle's ribs, or jaws of horses try
For truth, since men's are very sure to lie,
And shun with parrying blow and practised heed
The rushing horns, the wildly prancing steed.
The moisten'd penny greets with sounding smack
The rugged palm, which smites the greeting back;
Oaths fly, the bargain like a quarrel burns,
And oft the buyer turns, and oft returns;
Now mingle Sassenach and Gaelic tongue;
On either side are slow concessions wrung;
An anxious audience interfere; at last
The sale is closed, and whisky binds it fast,
In cave of quilting upon oziers bent,
With many an ancient patch and breezy rent.