Classic Poem

A small part only of my grief I write;
And if I do not publish all the tale
It is because my gloom gets some respite
By just a small bewailing: I bewail
That a poet must with stupid folk abide
Who steal his food and ruin his inside.

Once I had books, each book beyond compare,
And now no book at all is left to me;
Now I am spied and peeped on everywhere;
And this old head, stuffed with latinity,
Rich with the poet's store of grave and gay,
Will not get me skim-milk for half a day.

A horse, a mule, an ass — no beast have I!
Into the forest day by day I go,
And trot beneath a load of wood, that high!
Which raises on my poor old back a row
Of red raw blisters till I cry — Alack,
The rider that rides me will break my back.

When he was old, and worn, and near his end,
The Poet met Saint Patrick, and was stayed!
I am a poet too, and seek a friend;
A prop, a staff, a comforter, an aid;
A Patrick to lift Ossian from despair,
In Cormac Uasail mac Donagh of the Golden Hair!