Classic Poem

As I think of the insult that's done to this nation,
Red tears of rivinge from me faytures I wash,
And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation,
The sleeves that appointed Professor MacCosh.

I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience,
And see 'midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,—
Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians.
All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;

I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion;
Lard Jahn and his minions in Council I ask,
Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion)
But children of Erin were fit for that task?

What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition!
What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun,
To think that our countree has ne'er a logician
In the hour of her deenger will surrey her turrun!

On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance,
And, rather from Saxon than gather its rules,
I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science,
And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools!

O false Sir John Kane! is it thus that you praych me?
I think all your Queen's Universitees bosh;
And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me,
I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon MacCosh

There's Wiseman and Chume, and His Grace the Lord Primate,
That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe;
'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate,
And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe!

'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther,
Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint!
Saint Pathrick's sweet Statue shall stand in the centher,
And wink his dear oi every day during Lint.

And good Doctor Newman, that praycher unwary,
'Tis he shall preside the Academee School,
And quit the gay robe of St. Philip of Neri,
To wield the soft rod of St Lawrence O'Toole!