Ballad Of A Plebeian

I'm Francis Duggan plebeian An unpretentious rustic man And the only gift god gave to me Is the gift of poetastry. Most high breds think that it is wrong For plebeian to have the gift of song That poorly educated men like me Deserve nought but obscurity. I know my friends are few so few But I love all those who love me true And I've nothing but contempt and scorn For all of those who shun me as low born. Most folk say I'm on the road to hell I criticize in doggerel I hurt their feelings my with my pen All of those who get inside my skin. I see the World through plebeian eye And I see the love and I see the joy And the jealousy and rat like strife That go to make up human life. I pen to paper what I see The lust and human misery And the class distinction and the snobbery That taint human society. But most of all I find delight In country life and I love to write Of birds and beasts and wildering flowers That bloom in grass growing spring time showers. The sound the wind makes in the trees, The joy of wildborn melodies, The rippling sound of little rill That flows through flat lands from the hill. And all of these things touch me deep And rouse my feelings from their sleep And inspire this rustic plebeian To write of life and bird and beast and man.