A POET IN TROUBLE.

Colonist, Volume III, Issue 269, 18 May 1860, Page 4

A POET IN TROUBLE.

The following isa report of a scene which occurred in the Mayor's office, Clonmel. A man, named Alfred Sheill was brought up, charged by sub-constable Maguire with being drunk, and collecting a crowd in the public streets. He laid aside a hat that, like himself, was considerably th« worse of the wear; his garments were ragged, but ho folded his arms majestically. Mayor: Now you hear what the policeman has sworn; have you anything to pay to the charge ? Prisoner: Yes, I hear, please your worship, what this man has sworn; but lam before you forsaken, forlorn. My years, I assure you, are nearly threescore; but if pardoned just now, I'll offend you no more. Mayor: Oh! I see you are a poet. Prisoner: I am a man who has suffered the world a hard knocks. My living consists in a very small box—-a box which I carry beneath my left arm: it puts rags on my back and keeps my stomach warm.

Mayor: That's all very well, but you know I cannot suffer you to obstruct the passage of the Btreets, or be at large when intoxicated. Prisoner: We oft put in our mouths what bemuddles our brains, and, to-day, please your worship, amid the great rain, I humbly confess that I did take a drop, and perhaps on the streets much too long I did stop. But forgive me, I pray, man of love and of power; in pity ope wide gentle Mercy's sweet door. I'm sorry I've transgressed, and now I have done, ah! shut me not out from the light of the aun. Mayor: Are we to understand that this is the lay of the last minstrel ? Prisoner: Good gentleman, pray ye for me intercede; I'm hungry, for all day I missed of my feed. Allow me to say that the air of your cell agreed with my system anything but well. I'm a Briton by birth, and I'd have you to know that I once was well off, though l*m now rather low. Restore me to freedom; but give me relief from my bonds, and I'll bless you, oh! most worthy chief. If you fine me, it may be supposed very fine, but you never shall handle one silver of mine. 'Cause why, I've not got one; my person pray try. So fining, you see, will be all in my eye. Mayor: Well, really, I cannot send to prison one who pleads his cause so eloquently. The constable tells me you came quietly, so you are discharged ; but mind, don't come hear again. Prisoner: Most potent, I thank you. Oh! long may you rule. 11l frankly confess that I have been a fool; but never again will I ever offend; so my path to my lodging directly I'll bend. No more I'll be shipwrecked on whisky's sharp rocks; but, magistrate, tell 'em to give me ray box. Mayor: Certainly. Prisoner: Gramercy I your worship. And now fare thee well. Elsewhere to all people your kindness I'll tell. Good gentlemen ail, I will bid you good night; withyour leave, gentle sir, I'll now vanish from sight. Here the prisoner made a low bow, and grasping his box, vanished. The above account of the case presents but a feeble outline of the reality, and of the rhyming of the " poet in trouble," who, for some twenty minutes, kept the court and all present in roars of laughter.—-Zcwcfcw Daily Telegraph.