Classic Poem

Arrah, dear Joy, saave all your Faushes!
I maake mush reverensh to your Graushes
You seem to wonder — who you've got here;
Teague 's own dear shelf, the braave Bogg-trotter.
I've rid o'er Seas inteed on Foot
My Country's Honour to dispute,
And come by Chance on that Design,
My shelf alone, with all the Nine.
There's half your Mushes now in vogue,
All Irish , tho' they lack the Brogue —

We're charg'd by some, a Censure how hard!
With Names of Blund'rer, Sheat and Coward ;
When, whatsoe'er vile Rumour bellowsh,
We're quite another sort of Fellowsh.
First then, to second my Ashershion,
And clear my Country from Aspershion,
We're from the Charge of Blunder freed,
Upboo! we sheldome write or read.
Some Faults are found in wiser Sculsh,
The Pope, luck blesh him! has his bulsh.
Then from Impostor too we're clear,
Because we ne'er were yet sinsheere.
And how can Sheat be that Man's Due
Who ne'er pretended to be true?
For Cowardishe and such Bravadoesh
In taking Kicksh and Bashtinadoesh,
With which we're tax'd — the Charge must fall,
Good lack! we never fight at all.
Our Heroesh that at Figg 's contesht,
Cut Noshes only off, in jesht. —
Thus I've at large dishplay'd my Senshe,
And made, in short, a long Defenshe.
The Irish Orator, in Fame,
Like that old Greek with the hard Name,
Dim — hoshtenes — I'm right, upboo!
(His Chreeshstian Naame I leave to you)
Your Worships may persheive, Appollor's sh
Good graushe has made me born a Schollarsh.
Inteed my Father (happless Lot)
Died shince before I was begot.
And Books, to which I make Pretenshions,
I learn'd, all by my own Invenshions.
My Grammar soon could undershtand,
And knew that Domush was my Hand.
Next Proper Marrowbuss did enter,
Queen Janush and my Arshe present her .
My Case and Person both could seek,
And write my own fair Mark in Greek .
I know my Lettersh all by shite,
Tho' I've by Naame forgot 'em quite.
Sheven Shience does my Art excell,
Inteed, — — but I seven Stars can tell;
Some ' Stronomy can half explain,
The three great Bears, and Charles 's Wain;
Can tell when Year Bishextile leaps,
And when the Moon has got her Clypse ;
I've learnt all ' Lossophy in part,
Can say mine Almanack by heart,
And know, within an Hour or two,
What Clock is by it at firsht View.
I'm fit at Vershity for Fellowr
To take Degreesh — of some Booksheller;
Of Shournalisht, or such high Stationsh,
Where I may serve mine dear Relationsh.
St Patrick 's Beard! if e'er I rishe Man,
I'll maake my Shister some Excishe-Man.
I long to exercishe my Talent,
Laugh mush, and dresh like any Gallant.
At seeking Vermant I'm the oddest,
Arrah! my Nation is so modesht!
The mosht of us till we come hither
Can get e'en nothing, nor that neither;
But, ere I'd beg my Bread for Money,
My shelf wou'd 'dresh the King's braave Honey.
Ook! such great Learning haave and starve on't?
Ay! — no inteed, — I've done, — your Shervant.