Classic Poem

My mind is sad and weary thinking how
Our noblemen are all gone oversea;
Are far from Ireland, and are fighting now
In France, and Flanders, and in Germany.

If they, whom I could talk to without dread,
Were home I should not mind what foe might do;
Nor see the tax-collector seize my bed
To pay the hearth-rate that is overdue.

I pray to Him—who, in the haughty hour
Of Babel, threw confusion on each tongue—
That I may see our princes back in power,
And see Odell, the tax-collector, hung!