Classic Poem

As a thorn-bush or oaken bough
Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,
Above the door, at country fair,
Betokens entertainment there,
So bays on poets' brows have been
Set for a sign of wit within.
And as ill neighbors in the night
Pull down an ale house bush for spite,
The laurel so, by poets worn,
Is by the teeth of Envy torn—
Envy, a canker-worm which tears
Those sacred leaves that lightning spares.
And now t' exemplify this moral,
Tom having earned a twig of laurel
(Which measured on his head was found
Not long enough to reach half round,
But like a girl's cockade was tied
A trophy on his temple side),
Paddy repined to see him wear
This badge of honor in his hair,
And thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his Muse by S—'s model,
Let's drive at Tom's devoted noddle,
Pelts him by turns with verse and prose,
Hums like a hornet at his nose;
At length presumes to vent his satire on
The Dean, Tom's honored friend and patron.
The eagle in the tale, ye know,
Teased by the buzzing wasp below,
Took wing to Jove and hoped to rest
Securely in the Thunderer's breast;
In vain; even there to spoil his nod
The spiteful insect stung the god.