ABSTRACT
217SCENE I.—The Poet’s study. Lights down. The POET discovered at his writing-table L. burning midnight oil. Mysterious music which gradually resolves itself into an Irish jig. To which the POET presently sings.
When first I was hurled on the face of this world People thought ’twas a thunderbolt fallen. But when they found who had arrived a Hurroo! Rent the air—faith ’twas something appalling! Then a crowd came along many thousand men strong To gaze on this wonderful child. For they knew by his cry and the fire in his eye It was neighbour O’Flaherty’s child. 1 Chorus— They may bubble with jest at the way that I’m dressed They may scoff at the length of my hair, They may say that I’m vain, overbearing, inane, And object to the flowers I wear. They may laugh till they’re ill but the fact remains still, A fact I’ve proclaimed since a child. That it’s taken, my dears, nearly two thousand years To make neighbour O’Flaherty’s child!
While at Oxford I took every prize and I shook The whole College from attic to basement. When I got up to show them my Newdigate poem My master was dumb with amazement. Then he cried: ‘I don’t need this effusion to read— ‘I return your MS. undefiled. ‘Your success I proclaim on account of your name, [‘]Mr. neighbour O’Flaherty’s child.[’]
When I came up to town I soon made a renown I dazzled folk with my variety. Philosopher—artist—and general impartist Of cynical views on society. I set London ablaze, and you’ll find now-a-days Aristocracy’s tea tables piled With voluptuous poems bound in delicate tones, All by neighbour O’Flaherty’s child.
