Classic Poem

Dear Sir,

Such long delays have broke my rest,
Intrusive, that I scarce could ventilate,
Since last I ken'd you; but, once more myself,
Tranquil, I seize my ebon-colour'd plume,
On this blest day, to P ATRICK sacred made,
Hibernian saint! and with my letter, send
A G OOSE , plump and well fed, the only boon
It fits me to bestow, type of myself! —
The bearer drives a vehicle, by men
Waggon yclep'd, by Gods a chaise-marine,
And will on that good dawn from Woden nam'd,
Return; then shall I hope to read some news
Of all our friends; the merry curate's clerk,
The barber shrewd as Nicholas of old,
(Not him who fell,) but him whom humour drew,
In tale Cervantic, — Johnny, Rachel, Ruth,
And Nioodeme, and Oliver, and Hodge.

No more at present from your loving friend,
And most obedient, humble and devote
Servant till death,

TOM FOOL.