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 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE BROWN JUG.
I find a brown jug with a hole in the bottom,
Dropt her on the ground—what a story it tells!
The spirits it held, though the soft earth has got 'em,
Their nature reveals to the party who smells.
Cider-brandy, and, doubtless, distilled since October—
The scent of the apple still lingers around;
From earth it first came in a shape rather sober,
And then, changed in form, it went back to the ground.
Dropt her on the ground—what a story it tells!
The spirits it held, though the soft earth has got 'em,
Their nature reveals to the party who smells.
Cider-brandy, and, doubtless, distilled since October—
The scent of the apple still lingers around;
From earth it first came in a shape rather sober,
And then, changed in form, it went back to the ground.
Brown jug, you're an old one; I know by this token—
The string 'round your neck is unsightly and frayed;
And I find one more fact that is just as out-spoken—
A stopple of corn-cob some owner has made.
Well, perhaps you have aided in giving him comfort
While reeling along on the highway to woe;
Though bliss must be rare when to brandy or rum for 't
A desperate creature will recklessly go.
The string 'round your neck is unsightly and frayed;
And I find one more fact that is just as out-spoken—
A stopple of corn-cob some owner has made.
Well, perhaps you have aided in giving him comfort
While reeling along on the highway to woe;
Though bliss must be rare when to brandy or rum for 't
A desperate creature will recklessly go.
Here tied to the string is a half-blotted label—
“Bob Salter”—I might have known that by the cob;
Cork fitted too firmly, and closely, and stable;
To pull a loose cob out was easier for Bob.
How often Bob glued his dry lips to your muzzle
The shrewdest of reckoners never could tell;
How many such jugs he has emptied would puzzle
A mathematician to calculate well.
“Bob Salter”—I might have known that by the cob;
503
To pull a loose cob out was easier for Bob.
How often Bob glued his dry lips to your muzzle
The shrewdest of reckoners never could tell;
How many such jugs he has emptied would puzzle
A mathematician to calculate well.
That hole in the bottom no mischief created;
The hole in the top is the vent whence there came
The demon who dwells in a house desolated,
And brings in his company ruin and shame.
Through the neck where the corn-cob is resting in quiet
Poor Bob's former acres have melted away;
Through that came the fiend that with laughter and riot
Sent his manhood and nice sense of honor astray.
The hole in the top is the vent whence there came
The demon who dwells in a house desolated,
And brings in his company ruin and shame.
Through the neck where the corn-cob is resting in quiet
Poor Bob's former acres have melted away;
Through that came the fiend that with laughter and riot
Sent his manhood and nice sense of honor astray.
You'll never hold liquor again, broken vessel!
In the matter of mischief your work has been done;
To the wretch's racked bosom you'll nevermore nestle—
Why, bless me! that's Bob, lying prone in the sun.
Poor fellow! face downward, in Summer heat seething—
Let me turn him, and shade him, and pillow his head;
What's that? cold and pallid! no pulse-beat! no breathing!
Poor Drunkard! Heaven pardon his sins; he is dead!
In the matter of mischief your work has been done;
To the wretch's racked bosom you'll nevermore nestle—
Why, bless me! that's Bob, lying prone in the sun.
Poor fellow! face downward, in Summer heat seething—
Let me turn him, and shade him, and pillow his head;
What's that? cold and pallid! no pulse-beat! no breathing!
Poor Drunkard! Heaven pardon his sins; he is dead!
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |