Classic Poem

It's Micky Eamon Diver and he's only skin and bone,
With acres holm and heather, that, and money of his own—
It's all day long he's sitting with his elbow on the hob,
The crabbit Micky Eamon with his dudheen in his gob;
A near old scranny scrape-the-pot that's askin' dusk and dawn.
“Boy! are ye never gettin' on with diggin' Garrybawn!”

My gallowses are hangin' down and twistin' round my legs;
The girls can see the most of me that's stickin' through my rags;
It's dribs and drabs on back and front and freezin' to the pelt—
Ye'll see it's up to him one day and give him such a welt!
The close and scringy rip of sin that's at me dusk and dawn
With: “Will ye never hurry up with diggin' Garrybawn!”

Now if he's let me to a dance or better to a fair,
A penny whistle I would buy and learn a dancin' air—
I'd maybe whistle it at work, or wouldn't it be fun
To blow it right in Micky's face at night when work bees done!—
It's thrawn he is, the people say, but I can be as thrawn—
For Micky Fergus I can't stick, him, and his Garrybawn.

But, wait a bit till Old Hall' eve and then you'll see my plan:
It's off from here I'll scoot to where they'll treat me like a man.
As good as any in the place, and not because I'm wee
They'll curl their gobs and think it smart, that looking down on me!
And three pounds comin'! It's a lot! Just wait till that is drawn
I'll take the road from Micky's house, him, and his Garrybawn!