Classic Poem

When wise Lord Berkeley first came here,
We Irish folks expected wonders,
Nor thought to find so great a peer
E'er a week passed committing blunders:

Till on a day cut out by fate,
When folks came thick to make their court,
Out slipped a mystery of state
To give the town and country sport.

Now enter Bushe with new state-airs,
His Lordship's premier ministre,
And who in all profound affairs
Is held as needful as his clyster.

With head reclining on his shoulder,
He deals and hears mysterious chat,
While every ignorant beholder
Asks of his neighbour, 'Who is that?'

With this he put up to my Lord,
The courtiers kept their distance due,
He twitched his sleeve, and stole a word,
Then to a corner both withdrew.

Imagine now my lord and Bushe
Whispering in junto most profound,
Like good King Phiz and good King Ush,
While all the rest stood gaping round.

At length, a spark not too well bred,
Of forward face, and ear acute,
Advanced on tiptoe, leaned his head
To overhear the grand dispute.

To learn what northern kings design,
Or from Whitehall some new express,
Papists disarmed, or fall of coin,
For sure (thought he) it can't be less.

'My Lord', said Bushe, 'a friend and I
Disguised in two old threadbare coats
Ere morning's dawn stole out to spy
How markets went for hay and oats.'

With that he draws two handfuls out,
The one was oats, the other hay,
Puts this to's Excellency's snout,
And begs he would the other weigh.

My Lord seems pleased, but still directs
By all means to bring down the rates,
Then with a congee circumflex
Bushe, smiling round on all, retreats.

Our listener stood a while confused,
But gathering spirits wisely ran for't,
Enraged to see the world abused
By two such whispering Kings of Brentford.