Den I shake en shiver, En I hunt fer kiver, En I cry ter de good Lawd, "Please deliver!" I tell 'im plain Dat my hopes is vain, En I drinked my dram fer ter ease my pain!
Den de screech owl screech f'um de north ter south "You drinked yo' dram, en you _smacked_ yo' _mouth_! En you gwine de way Whar' de brimstone stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"
Now, whenne ye goode knyghte Yroncladde Hadde dwelte in Paradyse A matter of a thousand yeares, He syghed some grievous syghes, And went unto the entrance gate To speake hym in thys wyse:
"Beholde, I do not wysh to make A rackette, nor a fuss, And yet I fayne wolde hie awaye And cease from livyng thus; For it is moste too peaceful here, And sore monotonous."
"Oh, verie welle," ye keeper sayde, "You shall have your desyre: Go downe uponne ye earth agayne To see whatte you admyre-- But take goode heede that you shall keepe Your trolley on ye wyre."
Ryghte gladde was goode Sir Yroncladde To see ye gates unsealed. He toke a jumpe strayghte through ye cloudes To what was there revealed, And strayghtwaye lit uponne ye grounde Whych was a footeball field!
"Gadzookes!" he sayde; "now, here is sporte! Thys is a goodlie syghte. For joustynges soche as here abound I have an appetyte; So I will amble to ye scrappe, For that is my delyghte."
He strode into ye hurtlynge mass, Whence rose a thrillynge sounde Of class yelles, sygnalles, breakynge bones, And moanynges all arounde; And thenne ye footeballe menne tooke hym And pushed hym in ye grounde!
They brake hys breastplayte into bits, And shattered all hys greaves; They fractured bothe hys myghtie armes Withynne hys chaynemayle sleeves, And wounde hys massyve legges ynto Some oryentalle weaves.
Uppe rose ye brave Sir Yroncladde And groaned, "I hadde no wrong! I'll hustle back to Paradyse, And ryng ye entraunce gong; For thys new croppe of earthlie knyghtes At joustynge is too strong; And henceforth thys is my resolve: To staye where I belong!"
The prospect is bare and white, And the air is crisp and chill; While the ebon wings of night Are spread on the distant hill.
The roar of the stormy sea Seem the dirges shrill and sharp That winter plays on the tree-- His wild Æolian harp.