THE BARKING WEASELYou say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor hathA painted beard. Quite likely that is true,And sure 'tis natural you spend your wrathOn what has been least merciful to you.By Taylor's chin, if I am not mistaken,You like a rat have recently been shaken.To wear a beard of artificial hueMay be or this or that, I know not what;But, faith, 'tis better to be black-and-blueIn beard from dallying with brush and potThan to be so in body from the beatingThat hardy rogues get when detected cheating.You're whacked about the mazzard rather moreOf late than any other man in town.Certes your vulnerable back is soreAnd tender, too, your corrigible crown.In truth your whole periphery disclosesMore vivid colors than a bed of posies!You call it glory! Put your tongue in sheath!—Scars got in battle, even if on the breast,May be a shameful record if, beneath,A robber heart a lawless strife attest.John Sullivan had wounds, and Paddy Ryan—Nay, as to that, even Masten has, and Bryan.'Tis willingly conceded you've a knackAt holding the attention of the town;The worse for you when you have on your backWhat did not grow there—prithee put it down!For pride kills thrift, and you lack board and lodging,Even while the brickbats of renown you're dodging.
You say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor hathA painted beard. Quite likely that is true,And sure 'tis natural you spend your wrathOn what has been least merciful to you.By Taylor's chin, if I am not mistaken,You like a rat have recently been shaken.To wear a beard of artificial hueMay be or this or that, I know not what;But, faith, 'tis better to be black-and-blueIn beard from dallying with brush and potThan to be so in body from the beatingThat hardy rogues get when detected cheating.You're whacked about the mazzard rather moreOf late than any other man in town.Certes your vulnerable back is soreAnd tender, too, your corrigible crown.In truth your whole periphery disclosesMore vivid colors than a bed of posies!You call it glory! Put your tongue in sheath!—Scars got in battle, even if on the breast,May be a shameful record if, beneath,A robber heart a lawless strife attest.John Sullivan had wounds, and Paddy Ryan—Nay, as to that, even Masten has, and Bryan.'Tis willingly conceded you've a knackAt holding the attention of the town;The worse for you when you have on your backWhat did not grow there—prithee put it down!For pride kills thrift, and you lack board and lodging,Even while the brickbats of renown you're dodging.