University of Virginia Library

Drouthiness.

I had a dream, which was not all-my-eye.
The deep wells were exhausted, and the pumps
Delivered nothing but a windy groan
To those who plied their handles; and the clouds
Hung like exsuccous sponges in the sky.
Morn came and went—and came and brought no rain,
And men forgot their hunger in the dread
Of utter failure of all drink—their chops
Were all athirst for something potable;
And they did swig, from hogsheads, brandy, wine,
Cider, brown-stout, and such like, meant to serve
For future merry-makings—cellars dim,
Were soon dismantled of the regular tiers,
Of bottles, which were piled within their binns;
Small beer was now held precious—yea, they gulp'd
Black treacle, daubing childish visages,
Gripe-giving vinegar, and sallad oil.
Nor were old phials, fill'd with doctor's stuff,
Things to be sneezed at now—they toss'd them off.
Happy were they who dwelt within the reach
Of the pot-houses, and their foaming taps.
Barrels were all a-broach—and hour by hour
The spigots ran—and then a hollow sound
Told that the casks were out—and the Red Cow,
The Cat and Bagpipes, or the Dragon Green,
Could serve no customers—their pots were void
The moods of men, in this unwatery,
Small-beerless time, were different. Some sat
Unbuttoning their waistcoats, while they frown'd,
Scarce knowing what they did; while hopeful, some
Button'd their breeches-pockets up, and smiled;
And servant lasses scurried to and fro,
With mops unwet, and buckets, wondering when
The puddles would be fill'd, that they might scrub
The household floors; but finding puddles none,
They deem'd their pattens would grow obsolete—
Things of forgotten ages. So they took
Their disappointed mops, and render'd them
Back to their dry receptacles, The birds
Forsook their papery leaves. The dairy cows
Went dry, and were not milk'd. Incessantly
Ducks quack'd, aye stumbling on with flabby feet,
Over the sun-baked mud, which should have felt
Pulpy beneath their bills; and eels did crawl
Out from what had been ponds, and needed not
The angler's baited hook, or wicker-pot,
To catch them now,—for they who baffled erst,
Through sliminess, man's grasp, were still indeed
Wriggling—but dusty,—they were skinn'd for food.
He who, by lucky chance, had wherewithal
To wet his whistle, took his drop apart,
And smack'd his lips alone; small love was left:
Folks had but then one thought, and that was drink,
Where to be had, and what? The want of it
Made most men cross, and eke most women too.
The patient lost their patience, and the sour
Grew still more crabbed, sharp-nosed, and shrill-voiced.
Even cats did scratch their maiden Mistresses,
Angry that milk forthcame not,—all, save one,
And he was faithful to the virgin dame
Who petted him;—but, be it not conceal'd,
The rumour ran that he his whiskers greased
From a pomatum-pot, and so he quell'd
The rage of thirst; himself sought naught to lap,
But, with a piteous and perpetual mew,
And a quick snivelling sneeze, sat bundled up,
And taking matters quietly—he lived.
The crowd forsook our village; only two
Of the parishioners still tarried there,
And they were enemies; they met beside
(One only stood before and one behind)
The empty settle of a public-house,
Where had been heap'd a mass of pots and mugs
For unavailing usage; they snatch'd up,
And, scraping, lick'd, with their pounced-parchment tongues,
The porter-pots a-dust; their eager eyes
Dived into gin-bottles, where gin was not,
Labell'd in mockery,—then they lifted up
Their eyes for one brief moment, but it was
To hang their heads more sillily, ashamed
Each of his futile quest;—but 'twas enough
For recognition,—each saw, and leer'd and grinn'd.—
Even at their mutual sheepishness they grinn'd,
Discovering how upon each foolish face
Shiness had written Quiz. The land was dry;
Day pass'd, defrauded of its moistest meals,
Breakfastless, milkless, tealess, soupless, punchless,
All things were dry,—a chaos grimed with dust.
Tubs washer-womanless, replete with chinks,
Stood in their warping tressels—suds were none;
And dirty linen lost all heart, and hope
Of due ablution—shirts were worn a month—
White pocket-handkerchiefs were quite abandon'd,
And so were nankin inexpressibles—
Yea, most things washable,—and Washing seem'd
To threaten that henceforth it must be named
Among lost arts. Water had fled the Earth,
And left no tears in people's eyes to weep
Its sad departure;—Drouthiness did reign
Queen over all—She was the universe!