John Skelton

What could be dafter     Than John Skelton's laughter?     What sound more tenderly     Than his pretty poetry?     So where to rank old Skelton?     He was no monstrous Milton,     Nor wrote no "Paradise Lost,"     So wondered at by most,     Phrased so disdainfully,     Composed so painfully.     He struck what Milton missed,     Milling an English grist     With homely turn and twist.     He was English through and through,     Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew,     Though well their tongues he knew,     The living and the dead:     Learned Erasmus said,     Hie 'unum Britannicarum     Lumen et decus literarum.     But oh, Colin Clout!     How his pen flies about,     Twiddling and turning,     Scorching and burning,     Thrusting and thrumming!     How it hurries with humming,     Leaping and running,     At the tipsy-topsy Tunning     Of Mistress Eleanor Rumming!     How for poor Philip Sparrow     Was murdered at Carow,     How our hearts he does harrow     Jest and grief mingle     In this jangle-jingle,     For he will not stop     To sweep nor mop,     To prune nor prop,     To cut each phrase up     Like beef when we sup,     Nor sip at each line     As at brandy-wine,     Or port when we dine.     But angrily, wittily,     Tenderly, prettily,     Laughingly, learnedly,     Sadly, madly,     Helter-skelter John     Rhymes serenely on,     As English poets should.     Old John, you do me good!