Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, M.P.; ON REPORT OF COMMITTEE ON DRUNKEDNESS, by THOMAS HOOD Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Oh, mr. Buckingham, if I may take Last Line: Are not so much more temperate than others. Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; Ireland; Temperance; Drunkards; Alcohol Abuse; Irish; Prohibition | ||||||||
OH, Mr. Buckingham, if I may take The liberty with you and your Committee, Some observations I intend to make, I hope will prove both pertinent and pretty. On Drunkenness you've held a special court, But is consistency, I ask, your forte, When after (I must say) much Temperance swaggering You issue a Report, That's staggering! Of course you labour'd without drop or sup, Yet certain parts of that Report to read, Some men might think indeed, A corkscrew, not a pen, had drawn it up. For instance, was it quite a sober plan On such a theme as drunkenness to trouble A poor old man, Who could not e'en see single, much less double? Blind some six years, As it appears, He gives in evidence, and you receive it, A flaming picture of a flaming palace Where gin-admirers sipped the chalice And then (the banter is not bad), Thinks fit to add, You really should have seen it to believe it. That he could see such sights I must deny, Unless he borrowed Betty Martin's eye. A man that is himself walks in a line, One, not himself, goes serpentine, And as he rambles, In crab-like scrambles, The while his body works in curves, His intellect as surely swerves, And some such argument as this he utters, "While men get cut we must have cutters, As long as Jack will have his rum, We must have pink, corvette, and bomb, Each sort of craft Since Noah's old raft, Frigate and brig, Ships of all rig, We must have fleets, because our sailors swig, But only get our tars to broths and soups, And see how slops will do away with sloops! Turn flip to flummery, and grog to gravy, And then what need has England of a navy?" Forgive my muse; she is a saucy hussy, But she declares such reasoning sounds muzzy, And that, as sure as Dover stands at Dover, The man who entertains so strange a notion Of governing the ocean, Has been but half seas over. Again: when sober people talk On soberness, would not their words all walk Straight to the point, instead of zig-zag trials, Of both sides of the way, till having crost And crost, they find themselves completely lost Like gentlemen, -- rather cut -- in Seven Dials? Just like the sentence following in fact: "Every Act Of the Legislature," (so it runs) "should flow Over the bed," ---- of what? -- begin your guesses. The Bed of Ware? The State Bed of the May'r? One at the Hummums? Of MacAdam's? No. A parsley bed? Of cabbage, green or red? Of onions? daffodils? of water-cresses? A spare-bed with a friend -- one full of fleas? At Bedford, or Bedhampton? -- None of these. The Thames's bed? The bed of the New River? A Kennel? brick-kiln? or a stack of hay? Of church-yard clay, The bed that's made for ev'ry mortal liver? No -- give it up, -- all guessing I defy in it, It is the bed of "Truth," -- "inspired" forsooth, As, if you gave your best best-bed to Truth She'd lie in it! Come, Mr. Buckingham, be candid, come, Didn't that metaphor want "seeing home?" What man, who did not see far more than real, Drink's beau ideal, -- Could fancy the mechanic so well thrives. In these hard times, The source of half his crimes Is going into gin-shops changing fives! Whate'er had wash'd such theoretic throats, After a soundish sleep, till twelve next day, And, perhaps, a gulp of soda -- did not they All change their notes? Suppose, mind, Mr. B., I say, suppose You were the landlord of the Crown -- the Rose -- The Cock and Bottle, or the Prince of Wales, The Devil and the Bag of Nails, The Crown and Thistle, The Pig and Whistle, Magpie and Stump -- take which you like, The question equally will strike; Suppose your apron on -- top-boots, -- fur cap -- Keeping an eye to bar and tap, When in comes, muttering like mad, The strangest customer you ever had! Well, after rolling eyes and mouthing, And calling for a go of nothing, He thus accosts you in a tone of malice: "Here's pillars, curtains, gas, plate-glass -- What not? Zounds! Mr. Buckingham, the shop you've got Beats Buckingham Palace! It's not to be allowed, Sir; I'm a Saint, So I've brought a paint-brush, and a pot of paint, -- You deal in Gin, Sir, Glasses of Sin, Sir; No word -- Gin wholesome! -- You're a story-teller -- I don't mind Satan standing at your back, The Spirit moveth me to go about, And paint your premises inside and out, Black, Sir, coal black, Coal black, Sir, from the garret to the cellar. I'll teach you to sell gin -- and, what is more, To keep your wicked customers therefrom, I'll paint a Great Death's Head upon your door -- Write underneath it, if you please -- Old Tom!" Should such a case occur, How would you act with the intruder, Sir? Surely, not cap in hand, you'd stand and bow, But after hearing him proceed thus far, (Mind -- locking up the bar) You'd seek the first policeman near, "Here, take away this fellow, here, The rascal is as drunk as David's Sow!" If I may ask again -- between Ourselves and the General Post, I mean -- What was that gentleman's true situation Who said -- but could he really stand To what he said? -- "In Scottish land The cause of Drunkenness was education!" Only, good Mr. Buckingham, conceive it! In modern Athens, a fine classic roof, Christened the High School -- that is, over proof! Conceive the sandy laddies ranged in classes, With quaichs and bickers, drinking-horns and glasses, Ready to take a lesson in Glenlivet! Picture the little Campbells and M'Gregors, Dancing half fou', by way of learning figures; And Murrays, -- not as Lindley used to teach -- Attempting verbs when past their parts of speech -- Imagine Thompson, learning A B C, By O D V. Fancy a dunce that will not drink his wash, -- And Master Peter Alexander Weddel Invested with a medal For getting on so very far-in-tosh. Fancy the Dominie -- a droughty body, Giving a lecture upon making toddy, Till having emptied every stoup and cup, He cries, "Lads! go and play -- the school is up!" To Scotland, Ireland is akin In drinking, like as twin to twin, -- When other means are all adrift, A liquor-shop is Pat's last shift, Till reckoning Erin round from store to store, There is one whiskey shop in four. Then who, but with a fancy rather frisky, And warm besides, and generous with whiskey, Not seeing most particularly clear, Would recommend to make the drunkards thinner, By shutting up the publican and sinner With pensions each of fifty pounds a year? Ods! taps and topers! private stills and worms! What doors you'd soon have open to your terms! To men of common gumption, How strange, besides, must seem At this time any scheme To put a check upon potheen's consumption, When all are calling out for Irish Poor Laws! Instead of framing more laws, To pauperism, if you'd give a pegger, Don't check, but patronise their "Kill-the-Beggar!" If Pat is apt to go in Irish Linen, (Buttoning his coat, with nothing but his skin in) Would any Christian man -- that's quite himself, His wits not floor'd, or laid upon the shelf -- While blaming Pat for raggedness, poor boy, Would he deprive him of his "Corduroy!" Would any gentleman, unless inclining To tipsy, take a board upon his shoulder, Near Temple Bar, thus warning the beholder, "BEWARE OF TWINING?" Are tea-dealers, indeed, so deep-designing, As one of your select would set us thinking, That to each tea-chest we should say Tu Doces, (Or doses,) Thou tea-chest drinking? What would be said of me Should I attempt to trace The vice of drinking to the high in place, And says its root was on the top o' the tree? But I am not pot-valiant, and I shun To say how high potheen might have a run. What would you think, if, talking about stingo, I told you that a lady friend of mine, By only looking at her wine Flushed in her face as red as a flamingo? Would you not ask of me, like many more, -- "Pray, Sir, what had the lady had before?" Suppose at sea, in Biscay's bay of bays, -- A rum cask bursting in a blaze, -- Should I be thought half tipsy or whole drunk, If running all about the deck I roar'd "I say, is ever a Cork man aboard?" Answered by some Hibernian Jack Junk, While hitching up his tarry trowser, -- How would it sound in sober ears, O how, Sir, If I should bellow with redoubled noise, "Then sit upon the bung-hole, broth of boys?" When men -- the fact's well known -- reel to and fro, A little what is called how-come-you-so, They think themselves as steady as a steeple, And lay their staggerings on other people -- Taking that fact in pawn, What proper inference would then be drawn By e'er a dray-horse with a head to his tail, Should anybody cry, To some one going by, "O fie! O fie! O fie! You're drunk -- you've nigh had half a pint of ale!" One certain sign of fumes within the skull They say is being rather slow and dull, Oblivious quite of what we are about -- No one can doubt Some weighty queries rose, and yet you missed 'em, For instance, when a doctor so bethumps What he denominates "the forcing system," Nobody asks him about forcing-pumps! Oh say, with hand on heart, Suppose that I should start Some theory like this, -- "When Genesis Was written -- before man became a glutton, And in his appetites ran riot, Content with simple vegetable diet, Eating his turnips without leg of mutton, His spinach without lamb -- carrots sans beef, 'Tis my belief He was a polypus, and I'm convinc'd Made other men when he was hash'd or minc'd," -- Did I in such a style as this proceed, Would you not say I was Farre gone indeed? Excuse me, if I doubt at each Assize How sober it would look in public eyes, For our King's Counsel and our learned Judges When trying thefts, assaults, frauds, murders, arsons, To preach from texts of temperance like parsons, By way of giving tipplers gentle nudges. Imagine my Lord Bayley, Parke, or Park, Donning the fatal sable cap, and hark, "These sentences must pass, howe'er I'm pang'd, You, Brandy, must return -- and Rum the same -- To the Goose and Gridiron, whence you came -- Gin! Reverend Mr. Cotton and Jack Ketch Your spirit jointly will despatch -- Whiskey, be hang'd!" Suppose that some fine morning, Mounted upon a pile of Dunlop cheeses, I gave the following as public warning, Would there not be sly winking, coughs and sneezes? Or dismal hiss of universal scorn. "My brethren, don't be born, -- But if you're born, be well advised -- Don't be baptized. If both take place, still at the worst Do not be nursed, -- At every birth each gossip dawdle Expects her caudle; At christenings, too, drink always hands about, Nurses will have their porter or their stout, -- Don't wear clean linen, for it leads to sin, -- All washerwomen make a stand for gin -- If you're a minister -- to keep due stinting, Never preach sermons that are worth the printing, Avoid a steam-boat with a lady in her, And when you court, watch Miss well after dinner, Never run bills, or if you do don't pay, And give your butter and your cheese away, -- Build yachts and pleasure-boats if you are rich, But never have them launched or payed with pitch, In fine, for Temperance if you stand high, Don't die!" Did I preach thus, Sir, should I not appear Just like the "parson much bemused with beer?" Thus far, O Mr. Buckingham, I've gather'd, But here, alas! by space my pen is tether'd, And I can merely thank you all in short, The witnesses that have been called in court, And the Committee for their kind Report, Whence I have picked and puzzled out this moral, With which you must not quarrel, 'Tis based in charity -- That men are brothers, And those who make a fuss, About their Temperance thus, Are not so much more temperate than others. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES TEMPER by CLARA EXLINE BOCKOVEN A TRUCKER DRIVES THROUGH HIS LOST YOUTH by DAVID BOTTOMS THE FIGHTING WORD by BERTON BRALEY THE METHOD OF THE MAD MULLAH by BERTON BRALEY ON A PROHIBITIONIST POEM by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON A MAIDEN'S DREAM by ROBERT GREENE OUR PROGRAM by ARTHUR GUITERMAN |
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