The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once on a Time a certain Man was found
That had a Pond of Water in his Ground,—
A fine large Pond of Water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his Turn for many a Year.
Yet, so it was, a strange, unhappy Dread
Of wanting Water seiz'd the Fellow's Head.
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his Pond should sink.
Perpetually tormented with this Thought,

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He never ventur'd on a hearty Draught;
Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his Store,
When half-refresh'd, he frugally gave o'er;
Reviving, of himself reviv'd his Fright:
“Better,” quoth he, “to be half-chok'd than quite.”

Upon his Pond continually intent,
In Cares and Pains his anxious Life he spent,
Consuming all his Time and Strength away,
To make the Pond rise higher ev'ry Day.
He work'd and slav'd, and oh! how slow it fills!
Pour'd in by Pail-fuls, and took out—by Gills.

In a wet Season, he would skip about,
Placing his Buckets under ev'ry Spout;
From falling Show'rs collecting fresh Supply,
And grudging ev'ry Cloud that passèd by;
Cursing the dryness of the Times each Hour,
Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade thro' ev'ry dirty Spot,
Where any little Moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a Bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a Hog;
And cried whene'er Folks blam'd him: ‘What d'ye mean?
It costs a World of Water to be clean!”

If some poor Neighbour crav'd to slake his Thirst,
“What!—rob my Pond? I'll see the Rogue hang'd first!

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A burning Shame, these Vermin of the Poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my Door!
As if I had not Frogs and Toads enow,
That suck my Pond, whatever I can do!”

The Sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of Matters that were wet;
Betimes he rose to sweep the Morning Dew,
And rested late to catch the Ev'ning too.
With Soughs and Troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising Pond from ev'ry neighb'ring Ditch;
With Soughs, and Troughs, and Pipes, and Cuts, and Sluices,
From growing Plants he drain'd the very Juices;
Made ev'ry Stick of Wood upon the Hedges
Of good Behaviour to deposit Pledges;
By some Conveyance or another still
Devis'd Recruits from each declining Hill;
He left, in short, for this beloved Plunder,
No Stone unturn'd that could have Water under.

Sometimes, when forc'd to quit his awkward Toil
And, sore against his Will, to rest a while,
Then straight he took his Book, and down he sat
To calculate th' Expenses he was at:
How much he suffer'd, at a mod'rate Guess,
From all those Ways by which the Pond grew less.
For, as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd not a single Figure:
He knew a wise old Saying, which maintain'd
That 'twas bad Luck to count what one had gain'd.

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“First, for my Self, my daily Charges here
Cost a prodigious Quantity a Year;
Altho', thank Heaven, I never boil my Meat,
Nor am I such a Sinner as to sweat.
But Things are come to such a Pass, indeed,
We spend ten Times the Water that we need.
People are grown with washing, cleansing, rinsing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing;
So many proud, fantastic Modes, in short,
Are introduc'd, that my poor Pond pays for't.

“Not but I could be well enough content
With what upon my own Account is spent;
But those large Articles from whence I reap
No Kind of Profit, strike me on a Heap.
What a vast deal each Moment at a sup,
This ever thirsty Earth itself drinks up!
Such Holes and Gaps! Alas! my Pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable Sides.
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many Creatures as it keeps alive,
That creep from ev'ry Nook and Corner, marry!
Filching as much, as ever they can carry.
Then, all the Birds that fly along the Air
'Light at my Pond, and come in for a Share.
Item, at ev'ry Puff of Wind that blows,
Away at once the Surface of it goes;
The rest, in Exhalations to the Sun:
One Month's fair Weather, and I am undone!”

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This Life he led for many a Year together,
Grew old and grey in watching of his Weather,
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital Breath.
For as th' old Fool was carrying to his Field
A heavier Burden than he well could wield,
He miss'd his Footing, or somehow he fumbled
In tumbling of it in,—but in he tumbled.
Mighty desirous to get out again,
He scream'd, and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain;
The Place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor Bottom of it could he feel, nor Side:
And so—i'th' Middle of his Pond—he died.

What think ye now from this imperfect Sketch,
My Friends, of such a miserable Wretch?—
“Why, 'tis a Wretch, we think, of your own making.
No Fool can be suppos'd in such a taking;
Your own warm Fancy”—Nay, but warm or cool,
The World abounds with many such a Fool.
The choicest Ills, the greatest Torments, sure,
Are those which Numbers labour to endure.
“What? For a Pond?”—Why, call it an Estate:
You change the Name, but realise the Fate.