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Poems (Merrill)/A Lesson Well Taught

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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!"