He
was nought but a blind beggar-poet,
Cadging
a drink when he could,
Getting
pennies for performing his verses,
Groping
drunkenly at girls in the pub.
Though
they lived on, bringing him fame.
Gentle
folk dreaded his table,
And
avoided his presence like plague.
Enjoying
the flow of his words,
But,
did you want to share in his drinking,
Till
both you and he slumped to the boards?
Of
course, he had plenty companions,
Each
one as bad as the next,
Who
helped him to drink all his pennies,
While
enjoying his rhymes and his verse.
When
Raftery basked in applause,
And
drank his fill of strong whiskey,
Welcoming
the oblivion this brought.
Not
long in one place could he linger,
For
the pennies would soon all dry up.
Off
he went with his stick and his knapsack,
To
find another town and a pub.
That
one’s time and one’s place could bring,
For
poets of previous generations
Lived
rich lives in the courts of the kings.
The
kings were long gone from Ireland,
And
gowls now ruled in their place,
And
it was only peasants now sponsored
The
literature of his race.
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