100. The Petition of Tom Dermody to the Three Fates in Council Sitting

RIGHT rigorous, and so forth! Humbled

By cares and mourning, tost and tumbled,

Before your Ladyships, Tom Fool,

Knowing above the rest you rule,

Most lamentably sets his case

With a bold heart and saucy face.

Sans shoes or stocking, coat or breeches,

You see him now, most mighty witches,

His body worn like an old farthing,

The angry spirit just a-parting,

His credit rotten, and his purse

As empty as a cobbler’s curse;

His Poems, too, unsold—that’s worse!

In short, between confounded crosses,

Patrons all vexed and former losses,

Sure as a gun he cannot fail,

Next week to warble in a jail,

Which jail to folks not very sanguine

Is just as good or worse than hanging;

Though in the first vain hopes flatter,

But Hope’s quite strangled by the latter.

Thus is a poor rhyming rascal treated,

Fairly, or rather fouly cheated

Of all the goods from wit accruing,

(Wit that’s synonomous with ruin).

Then take it in your head-piece, Ladies,

To set up a poor Bard, whose trade is

Low fallen enough in conscience; pity

The maker of this magic ditty;

And turn your wheel once more in haste

To see him on the summit placed,

For well you wot that woes (’od rot ’em)

Have long since stretched him at the bottom,

Where he who erst fine lyrics gabbled

With mire and filth was sorely dabbled,

So pitifully pelted, that

He looks like any drowned rat.

O Justice, Justice, take his part!

O lift him on thy lofty Cart

Magnific Fame! And let Fat Plenty

Marry one Poet out of Twenty!