J. M. Synge

Seven dog-days we let pass Naming Queens in Glenmacnass, All the rare and royal names Wormy sheepskin yet retains, Etain, Helen, Maeve, and Fand, Golden Deirdre's tender hand, Bert, the big-foot, sung by Villon, Cassandra, Ronsard found in Lyon. Queens of Sheba, Meath and Connaught, Coifed with crown, or gaudy bonnet, Queens whose finger once did stir men, Queens were eaten of fleas and vermin, Queens men drew like Monna Lisa, Or slew with drugs in Rome and Pisa, We named Lucrezia Crivelli, And Titian's lady with amber belly, Queens acquainted in learned sin, Jane of Jewry's slender shin: Queens who cut the bogs of Glanna, Judith of Scripture, and Gloriana, Queens who wasted the East by proxy, Or drove the ass-cart, a tinker's doxy, Yet these are rotten — I ask their pardon — And we've the sun on rock and garden, These are rotten, so you're the Queen Of all the living, or have been.

To a sister of an enemy of the author's who disapproved of 'The Playboy' Lord, confound this surly sister, Blight her brow with blotch and blister, Cramp her larynx, lung, and liver, In her guts a galling give her. Let her live to earn her dinners In Mountjoy with seedy sinners: Lord, this judgment quickly bring, And I'm your servant, J. M. Synge.