Classic Poem

Wasn't ye there when the Celtic tragedians
Played to a houseful of Irish comedians—
All of them zealous in matters Hibernian,
Full of the ripest of Dublin Falernian—
All of them experts, entitled to criticize,
Laden with eggs to assist them to witticize?

Plain was the stage, and the costumes was peasant-like;
All the proceedings was easy and pleasant-like,
Till, says the Hero (a queer Irish laddie, now!),
“Sure, an' I'm just after killin' me daddy, now.”

Up from his seat jumped a critic meticulous:
“Bosh!” says he loudly; “'tis vile an' ridiculous!”
And, for to prove that his judgment was plenary,
Hove a potato right into the scenery!
“Yes,” says another, “I fully agree with ye.
Erin, sweet Erin, they're making too free with ye!
Such fabrications are false and felonious;
Here's a tomato that brands them erroneous!”
“Sir,” cried a third, “yer position's invincible!”—
Hurling an egg in defense of the Principle.
“Aye,” chimed a fourth, and to clinch it, upsetted a
Critical vial of pure asafœtida.
Then came a shower of erudite reasoning—
Cabbages, turnips, and pepper for seasoning—
Till, though undaunted, the Irish Melpomene
Saw all the stars in the book of astronomy.

Now to the aid of the criticized player folk
Rushed the policemen, rebutting the gayer folk,
Out through the lobby persuasively booting them,
Using their clubs in the way of confuting them.
When in discussion the Bluecoats had bested them,
Straightway those fine Irish critics arrested them.

Scolding the culprits, says Magistrate Corrigan,
“Don't ye be doing the like any more again.
Shut up your mouths! I don't want any speech of ye;
Ten paper dollars I'm asking from each of ye.
And, ye'll remember, when next ye are hating things,
Clubs are the old Irish means of debating things!”