THE SHEPHERD TO THE POET

    Och, what's the good o' spinnin' words
        As fine as silken thread?
    Will "golden gorse upon the hill"
        Be gold to buy ye bread?

    An' while ye're list'nin' in th' glen
        "To catch the thrush's lay,"
    Your thatch is scattered be th' wind,
        Your sheep have gone astray.

    Th' time ye're afther makin' rhymes
        O' leppin' waves an' sea,
    Arrah! ye should be sellin' then
        Your lambs upon th' quay.

    Sure, 'tis God's ways is very quare,
        An' far beyant my ken,
    How o' the selfsame clay he makes
        Poets an' useful men!