What ails you so melancholy, quoth John, so cross?
You seem all snappish, uneasy, and fretful.
Lie with us on the clover, 'tis fair and sheltered:
Come nearer; you're rubbing your back; why so ill-tempered?
Well, gossip, it shall be said; you ask what ails me, & for what;
You have put us in talk, till the sun goes to set.
I am a fool, and a dunce; we'll idle out the day.
The more we spend here, the less in the churchyard.
Yesterday we had a goal, just in our hand.
Their gentry were quaking, themselves could not stand.
If Good-for-little had been buried, it had been my Tommy,
Who by misluck was placed to drive in.
Throngs and crowds from each quarter were at the Lough;
Such vapouring, and shimmering, when stript in their shirts!
Such bawling, and shouting, when the ball was thrown!
I saw their aim was to give us ne'er a stroke.
But with all their bravado, they soon were taught
That their errand was aiming to bring anguish upon them.
Such driving, struggling, 'till then we ne'er saw.
Nor such never will, no, nor never may.