Classic Poem

Paddy the Ram was a cankered spud, and he was a matured egg,
With a leg that went straight as a leg might go, and a sort of circular leg.
He worked his way with his shoulder blades, and his turret would sometimes jamb;
And he screwed his “dial” at every step; and that was Paddy the Ram.

He'd shout for himself and he'd bum for beer, and tobacco he'd seldom buy,
But Paddy the Ram was the Only Joke in the township of Blankydry.
He'd shake his stick at the world at large, and his mildest word was damn,
Till the Constable, as a last resource, would lock up Paddy the Ram.

The folks had gathered one day in force to watch the train go through,
As they mostly do in the country towns (it's the only thing to do),
When the Constable's toddler fell on the line—perhaps because of the cram;
And no one thought of the special train, and none saw Paddy the Ram.

But a figure leapt from the platform's edge, at the mother's piercing cry,
And snatched the child from between the rails as the special thundered by.
“Who is the Hero?” the people cried, and they saw it was Wilson's Sam—
The grocer's son of the blameless life. And it wasn't Paddy the Ram.

And the minister's daughter slipped one day on the treacherous river bank;
And the townsfolk watched, with their faces grey, while twice in the stream she sank.
But a swimmer clutched at her long wet hair and he towed her on to the dam.
'Twas the draper's assistant who went to church. And it wasn't Paddy the Ram.

No. I can't make a hero of Paddy the Ram, though Paddy the Ram is dead,
And a constable wrote in his pocket book the very last words he said.
His views were large, but he died in charge, and he died in a Sydney tram
Of rum and whisky and beer and bash. And he died Paddy the Ram.