 | The Harp of Erin |  |
244
THE PETITION OF TOM DERMODY
To the three Fates in Council sitting.
“Right rigorous, and so forth! humbledBy cares and mournings, tost and tumbled,
Before your ladyships Tom Fool,
Knowing above the rest you rule,
Most lamentably sets his case,
With a bold heart and saucy face.
Sans shoe or stocking, coat or breeches,
You see him now, most mighty witches:
His body worn like an old farthing,
The angry spirit just a-parting;
His credit rotten, and his purse
As empty as a cobler's curse;
His poems too unsold,—that's worse!
In short, between confounded crosses,
Patrons all vex'd, and former losses,
Sure as a gun he cannot fail
Next week to warble in a jail;
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Is just as good, or worse than hanging;
Though in the first some vain hopes flatter,
But Hope's quite strangled by the latter.
Thus is poor rhyming rascal treated;
Fairly, or rather foully cheated
Of all the goods from wit accruing;
(Wit, that's synonimous with ruin).
Then take it in your head-piece, ladies,
To set up a poor bard whose trade is
Low fall'n enough in conscience: pity
The master of the magic ditty;
And turn your wheel once more in haste,
To see him on the summit plac'd.
For well you wot that woes ('od rot 'em!)
Have long time stretch'd him at the bottom:
Where he who erst fine lyrics gabbled,
With mire and filth was sorely dabbled:
So plentifully pelted that
He looks like any drowned rat.
O Justice, Justice! take his part;
Oh! lift him in thy lofty cart,
Magnific Fame; and let fat Plenty
Marry one poet out of twenty.”
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