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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CAUDA MORRHUAE, by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND First Line: Poor little tommy cod Last Line: And so I've arrived at the end of my tail. | |||
POOR little Tommy Cod Took his best fishing-rod, Cunningly fashioned of split bamboo; Likewise his tackle, Of red and brown hackle, To venture down stream in his bark canoe. Tommy had registered, Solemnly, I have heard, Promised and vowed, that ere evening fell Dore and speckled trout, Black bass and bull-pout, Would cheerfully yield to his magic spell. Since time immemorial, In things piscatorial, Tho' Magog be famed among knights of the rod; Yet, making due limit For what may be in it, Little Tommy might know it was no plaice for Cod. Now, in the buoyant sea, There's so much buoyancy A Cod if he wishes can easily float; But in the swift Magog, Why, even a bullfrog. Would much rudder perch on the side of a boat. I told him the dangers That all who are strangers Might meet with, in case they should venture below; For the mill-dam's so turbot No mortal can curb it, As those who have tried it must certainly know. O Tommy, take care of Your life and beware of The treacherous mill-dam you shortly shall view! But Tommy was vain and He quitted the mainland, And put out to sea in his frail canoe. The craft like an arrow Sped down the long, narrow, And turbulent channel, where wild billows rave; Then past Point MacFarlane, Like shot from a marlin, Poor Tommy swept on to his watery grave. When Tom struck the mill-dam, The mill-dam, the mill-dam, When Tom struck the mill-dam, he dam'd the dam'd mill; Why should he strike it, When there's nothing like it To test all the best of a mariner's skill? I saw the craft flounder, As fiercely around her The hungry waves leapt on the ill-fated prey; And each time they struck her Poor Cod cried for sucker, But sucker was scarce on that terrible day. To throw in the river Some oil of cod liver, And thereby the grim foaming waters becalm, Was Tom's next endeavor, But he found that his lever Was all out of order, and not worth a dam (mill-dam). At last he went under, And, faith! 't was no wonder, For a Cod shouldn't go where he doesn't belong; "Requiescat in pace" I murmur, in case he Should rise and object to this mournful song. We found him next morning -- A sorrowful warning; The short line we chartered, and shipped him by rail To distant Atlantic, By way of Megantic, And so I've arrived at the end of my tail. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A RAINY DAY IN CAMP by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND AUTUMN DAYS by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND BARBOTTE (BULL-POUT) by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND BATEESE AND HIS LITTLE DECOYS by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND BATEESE THE LUCKY MAN by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND BLOOM - A SONG OF COBALT by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND BOULE by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND BRUNO THE HUNTER by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND CANADIAN FOREVER by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND CHAMPLAIN by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND |
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