Classic Poem

I wander utter as a cloud,
The worst paid Jack o' any trade,
While all the plaudits of the crowd
To witty man and clown are paid.

The clever man is in the mode,
He draws his comfortable check,
While Po'thry walks the rocky road,
And great Art gets it in the neck.

I would be wing-free as the burrds,
I would be foot-free as the fox,
But I am set to piling words
As little children pile their blocks.

And is it not a bitther thing
That men should be compelled by law
To thrum upon a lute and sing,
For not enough to feed a daw?

But 'tis the law, so without price
I thrum and sing in hedge and field,
Until in heaven's good time the thrice
Accursèd statute is repealed.