Classic Poem

Well; if ever I saw such another man since my mother bound my head,
You a gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred?
I am sure such words does not become a man of your cloth,
I would not give such language to a dog, faith and troth.
Yes; you called my master a knave; fie Mr Sheridan, 'tis a shame
For a parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name.
Knave in your teeth, Mr Sheridan, 'tis both a shame and a sin,
And the Dean my master is an honester man than you and all your kin:
He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body,
My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindle-shanked hoddy-doddy.
And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse,
Because my master one day, in anger, called you goose.
Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October,
And he never called me worse than 'sweetheart', drunk or sober:
Not that I know his Reverence was ever concerned to my knowledge,
Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late in your wicked college.

You say you will eat grass on his grave: a Christian eat grass!
Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose or an ass:
But that's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye;
Well, well, that's as God pleases, and I don't believe that's a true story,
And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master; what care I?
And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to Mary.
Everybody knows, that I love to tell truth, and shame the devil;
I am but a poor servant, but I think gentlefolks should be civil.
Besides, you found fault with our victuals one day that you was here,
I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in the year.
And Saunders the man says, you are always jesting and mocking,
'Mary' said he, (one day, as I was mending my master's stocking,)
'My master is so fond of that minister that keeps the school;
I thought my master a wise man, but that man makes him a fool.'
'Saunders' said I, 'I would rather than a quart of ale,
He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a dishclout to his tail.'
And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter,
For I write but a sad scrawl, but sister Marget she writes better.
Well, but I must run and make the bed before my master comes from prayers,
And see now, it strikes ten, and l hear him coming upstairs:
Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand,
And so I remain in a civil way, your servant to command,