Classic Poem

I'm telling ye now of a hero of story—
The Seanachan, chief of the bards of his time,
That harped before Guairè the King in his glory
And proved to all Connaught the Power of Rhyme.

When all in the palace was having a gay time
The Seanachan entered, the brisk little man;
“Mille failthe!” sez the King; “ye're as welcome as Maytime!
And what are ye eating? and fill up yer can!

“The whisky's forninst ye, the pot's on the bubble;
And won't ye be having a slice of the leg?”
“My thanks,” sez the Bard; “am I giving ye trouble
To ask them to boil me a bit of an egg?”

They boiled him an egg and they brought it to table;
But while he was tuning his harp for a lay,
The crafty old Rats from the cellar was able
To reach the Bard's dinner and roll it away!

And when he preceived how them Rats had been thieving,
His wrath was tremendous, his anger was strong;
He knew that his dinner was gone past retrieving,
And huried at the scamps all the might of his song.

He sang of their wives and their sons and relations;
He sneered at their habits, the taints of their blood,
He blazoned the sins of their past generations
And all their great-grandmothers back to the Flood.

Now mind ye, the words that he used in his jeering
Were those of a Poet well taught and well bred;
Still, since there is always some ladies in hearing
'Tis best to forget what he sang and he said.

But, ah, the poor Rats! When those wretched rapscallions
Had felt the full wrath of the Bard they'd defied,
They crawled from their crannies in troops and battalions,
And, lifting their pitiful paws up, they died!

So mark what I'm telling, ye saucy gossoon ye!
Don't anger a Poet, whatever ye're at,
For fear he should curse ye, defame ye, lampoon ye,
And rhyme ye to death like an old Irish Rat!