Classic Poem

Harp of the Pats! that rotting long hast lain
On the soft bosom of St. Allan's bog,
And when the wind had fits wouldst twang a strain,
Till envious mud did all thy music clog,
E'en just as too much pudding chokes a dog.
Oh, Paddy's Harp! still sleeps thine accent's pride?
Will nobody be giving it a jog?
Still must thou silent be as when espied
Upon an Irish old, old halfpenny's back-side?

Not thus when Erin wore a wilder shape,
Thy voice was speechless in an Irish town:
It roused the hopeless lover to a rape,
Made timorous tenants knock proud landlords down:
Whisky at every pause the feast did crown.
Now, by the powers! the fun was never slack;
The O s and Mac s were frisky as the clown;
For still the burthen (growing now a hack)
Was " Hubbaboo, dear joys! " and " Didderoo! " and " Whack! "

Och, wake again! arrah, get up once more,
And let me venture just to take a thrum!
Wake, and be damned! you've had a tightest snore —
Perhaps I'd better let you lie there dumb
Yet if one ballad-monger like my strain,
Though I've a clumsy finger and a thumb,
I shan't have jingled minstrelsy in vam;
So, Wizard, be alive! old Witch, get up again!