Ballad Of A Plebeian Poem by Francis Duggan

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.