Classic Poem

As a thorn-bush, or oaken bough,
Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,
Above the door, at country fair,
Betokens entertainment there,
So, bays on poet's brows have been
Set, for a sign of wit within.
And as ill neighbours in the night,
Pull down an alehouse bush, for spite,
The laurel so, by poets worn,
Is by the teeth of envy torn,
Envy, a canker-worm which tears
Those sacred leaves that lightning spares.
And now t' exemplify this moral,
Tom having earned a twig of laurel,
(Which measured on his head, was found
Not long enough to reach half round,
But like a girl's cockade, was tied
A trophy, on his temple side)
Paddy repined to see him wear
This badge of honour in his hair,
And thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his muse by Smedley's model,
Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle,
Pelts him by turns with verse and prose,
Hums, like a hornet at his nose;
At length presumes to vent his satire on
The Dean, Tom's honoured friend and patron.
The eagle in the tale, ye know,
Teased by a buzzing wasp, below,
Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest
Securely, in the Thunderer's breast;
In vain; even there to spoil his nod
The spiteful insect stung the god.