Thomas Dermody

Thomas Dermody Poems

Thomas Dermody Biography

Thomas Dermody (1775–1802), poet, born in Ennis, showed great capacity for learning, but fell into idle and dissipated habits, and threw away his opportunities. He published two books of poems, which after his death were collected as The Harp of Erin. Dermody was an accomplished sonneteer, 56 of his sonnets being published in various works, from his very first 1789 collection "Poems" to those published in 1792 before he went to fight on the Continent, and even a few posthumously published verses in the biography by James Grant Raymond. S.T. Coleridge took an interest in some of his verse which had been included in the popular literary magazine "The Anthologia Hibernica". Dermody also wrote under a number of pseudonyms, notably Mauritius Moonshine, and Marmaduke Myrtle.)

The Best Poem Of Thomas Dermody

The Petition Of Tom Dermody To The Three Fates In Council Sitting

RIGHT rigorous, and so forth! Humbled
By cares and mourning, tost and tumbled,
Before your Ladyships, Tom Fool,
Knowing above the rest you rule,
Most lamentably sets his case
With a bold heart and saucy face.
Sans shoes or stocking, coat or breeches,
You see him now, most mighty witches,
His body worn like an old farthing,
The angry spirit just a-parting,
His credit rotten, and his purse
As empty as a cobbler’s curse;
His Poems, too, unsold—that’s worse!
In short, between confounded crosses,
Patrons all vexed and former losses,
Sure as a gun he cannot fail,
Next week to warble in a jail,
Which jail to folks not very sanguine
Is just as good or worse than hanging;
Though in the first vain hopes flatter,
But Hope’s quite strangled by the latter.
Thus is a poor rhyming rascal treated,
Fairly, or rather fouly cheated
Of all the goods from wit accruing,
(Wit that’s synonomous with ruin).
Then take it in your head-piece, Ladies,
To set up a poor Bard, whose trade is
Low fallen enough in conscience; pity
The maker of this magic ditty;
And turn your wheel once more in haste
To see him on the summit placed,
For well you wot that woes (’od rot ’em)
Have long since stretched him at the bottom,
Where he who erst fine lyrics gabbled
With mire and filth was sorely dabbled,
So pitifully pelted, that
He looks like any drowned rat.
O Justice, Justice, take his part!
O lift him on thy lofty Cart
Magnific Fame! And let Fat Plenty
Marry one Poet out of Twenty!

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