 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
COME BACK.
You say the poor-house is a mile ahead;
It once stood yonder—“That was years ago.”
True, true! They'll give me supper and a bed;
A job at picking oakum, too, I know,
For that's their way.
It once stood yonder—“That was years ago.”
True, true! They'll give me supper and a bed;
A job at picking oakum, too, I know,
For that's their way.
Old Potter always used to find some work,
And plenty, for the travelling tramp to do;
And his successor, even if less a Turk,
Will follow his example. “So I knew
Old Potter, eh?”
And plenty, for the travelling tramp to do;
And his successor, even if less a Turk,
Will follow his example. “So I knew
Old Potter, eh?”
Of course I did. Not as a pauper though;
I made poor-masters and such things just then;
For, strange as it may seem, I'd have you know
That I have ranked among the “solid men”
Of Brantford town.
I made poor-masters and such things just then;
For, strange as it may seem, I'd have you know
That I have ranked among the “solid men”
Of Brantford town.
Now I am mostly in the liquid line
When I can get it. Thirty summers since.
My food was dainty, clothes were superfine—
They said I feasted people like a prince—
But now I'm down.
When I can get it. Thirty summers since.
My food was dainty, clothes were superfine—
They said I feasted people like a prince—
But now I'm down.
333
Who from a high position falls, falls far,
And from the distance feels the more the hurt.
The humbler men in life much happier are,
For they lie prone already in the dirt,
And feel no ill.
And from the distance feels the more the hurt.
The humbler men in life much happier are,
For they lie prone already in the dirt,
And feel no ill.
“Travelled around!” You bet I have. I left
These parts long years ago, and I have been
From east to west since then, have felt the heft
Of years of trouble, and the sights I've seen
A book would fill.
These parts long years ago, and I have been
From east to west since then, have felt the heft
Of years of trouble, and the sights I've seen
A book would fill.
Now you're a man of substance; one whom chance,
Or labor, may be, helped to fill his purse—
“You've had your troubles?” Every one must dance
Just as his fortune fiddles. (He'll disburse
At least a dime.)
Or labor, may be, helped to fill his purse—
“You've had your troubles?” Every one must dance
Just as his fortune fiddles. (He'll disburse
At least a dime.)
Troubles are nothing with the means to thrive—
“Abandoned by your father?” Why, how mean
Some people are. If my son were alive
He'd be your age. The boy I have not seen
A long, long time.
“Abandoned by your father?” Why, how mean
Some people are. If my son were alive
He'd be your age. The boy I have not seen
A long, long time.
A quarter! Thank you. May I ask your name?
What! “Abner Brown!” Your mother? Dead, you say!
(There are her eyes and hair—the very same.)
These are not tears—the raw east wind to-day
Moistens the eyes.
What! “Abner Brown!” Your mother? Dead, you say!
(There are her eyes and hair—the very same.)
These are not tears—the raw east wind to-day
Moistens the eyes.
You don't object to please an old man's whim
By giving me your hand? You mind me much
Of one I knew. (My head begins to swim.)
“I tremble?” Age and want the sinews touch
As manhood flies.
By giving me your hand? You mind me much
Of one I knew. (My head begins to swim.)
“I tremble?” Age and want the sinews touch
As manhood flies.
334
Good-bye. God bless you! He has gone. His smile
Had sunlight in it; zephyrs in his breath—
He shall not know how, after this long while,
Hither returned to die a pauper's death,
His father came.
Had sunlight in it; zephyrs in his breath—
He shall not know how, after this long while,
Hither returned to die a pauper's death,
His father came.
Let the boy prosper. Never let his life
Be shadowed by my half-forgotten crime:
I've seen and touched him. My poor, patient wife
Is dead; but he is like me in my prime,
All but my shame.
Be shadowed by my half-forgotten crime:
I've seen and touched him. My poor, patient wife
Is dead; but he is like me in my prime,
All but my shame.
For me the poor-house, and the pauper's bed,
And the pine coffin, and the noteless grave.
He shall not blush to know when I am dead
He was akin to one, to vice a slave,
Who soiled his name.
And the pine coffin, and the noteless grave.
He shall not blush to know when I am dead
He was akin to one, to vice a slave,
Who soiled his name.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |