She’ll mak’ ye a reedeeculous rum ’un,
Unsex, half saint ye!
Thrasonic Bobadil the bard,
Wha deems Parnassus his backyard,
Tried to invoke thy presence—hard;
As did great “Festus.”
But somehow their attempts, ill-starred,
Scarce eenterest us.
They havena’ the true grit and grup
In mighty shape to raise ye up.