Classic Poem

Where didst thou find, young Bard, thy sounding lyre?
Where the bland accent, and the tender tone?
A-sitting snugly by thy parlour fire?
Or didst thou with Apollo pick a bone?
The Muse will have a crow to pick with me
For thus assaying in thy brightening path:
Who, that with his own brace of eyes can see,
Unthunderstruck beholds thy gentle wrath?
Who from a pot of stout e'er blew the froth
Into the bosom of the wandering wind,
Light as the powder on the back of moth,
But drank thy muses with a grateful mind?
Yea, unto thee beldams drink metheglin
And annisies, and carraway, and gin.