Classic Poem

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying —
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying .

What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out —
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I 'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime —
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time .

To me Dan Phaebus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about, —
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl;
What then, — if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintty begs
Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs?

Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
" To meet the sun upon the upland lawn " —
Well — he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
All up — all up!

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon; —
A man that's fond precociously of stirring ,
Must be a spoon.