4534929Poems — A Lesson Well TaughtClara A. Merrill
A LESSON WELL TAUGHT
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Along down the street walked a dandy Who sported more beauty than brain; He was dressed in an elegant fashion And carried a gold headed cane. With nothing to do, he was strolling—Just seeking amusement and fun.—But his practical joke caused him sorrow, And this is the way it was done.
"Bah jove! here comes an old crone—Now excitement I anticipate!"And his vest was pulsative with laughter Thus causing his cheeks to inflate. With a jug in her hand, and a basket, She was wending her way from the store,—A powerful woman from Erin's fair isle Weighing two hundred and ninety—or more.
As she with quick footsteps approaches This intrigue he hastily planned:—To jostle against her, in passing, And knock the things out of her hand.And alas for the basket she cherished—He had planned but too wisely, and well,—The jug for an instant went whizzing—Then, broken to atoms, it fell.
But she had him fast by the collar—She shook him, then flung him down flat; His legs broad-cast on the pavement Were thrown, and down on them she sat! He writhed like a fish out of water—But in vain, for she held him down tight,—"Ah, me honey, I have the advantage An' I 'm thinkin' ye'll stay here tonight!
What ye doin', ye black-hearted black-guard That ye can't let an ould leddy alone? Are ye meddlin' wid business of others Because ye have none of yer own? Ye have broken me jug—an' molasses Is spattered all over me dress—But, begorra! 'fore wid ye I 'm done Ye'll be lookin' like me I guess!'
She arose—and both his feet seizing Walked on, while he struggled and yelled;But the more he struggled and shouted—So much the more firmly she held!Through the pool of molasses she dragged him Until his immaculate shirt, His trousers, and coat of fine broad-cloth Was a mixture of molasses and dirt.
"Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lesson I'll larn ye afore I'm content—Ye 'll not trouble agin an ould leddy Because she 's of Irish descent!!! Arrah—but ye don't get away aisy! Will ye be done wid yer pratin', yer jokes? Shure there's no more honor about yer Than to any ould bullfrog that croaks!
An' a right sorry figure I'm thinkin' Ye look fer a "swate bloomin' youth!" Will ye show yerself to the fellers? Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth? Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses—If ye do, will she say it was right To deprive an ould woman of somethin' To eat on her cold bread to night?
An' now, me molasses-cheeked dandy—Ye may let this yer feelin 's console:—If ye ever agin let me ketch ye I'll thrash ye! I will, by me soul!!!My advise ye had better be takin' If ye've got a shmall mind of yer own,—When ye meet an ould woman that's Irish Her ye 'd better be lettin ' alone!"
