Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DESCENT OF TIMOTHY, by JAMES HAY BEATTIE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DESCENT OF TIMOTHY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tim crawl'd on board; no phiz e'er sadder
Last Line: What, won't you go!—here, cesar, cesar.—
Subject(s): Gray, Thomas (1716-1771)


TIM crawl'd on board; no phiz e'er sadder;
Step'd backward down the coal black ladder;
Then twisting sidelong, like a crab, in,
Stagger'd into the after cabin.
Him spied the dog of Newfoundland,
That by a bulk-head chanced to stand;
His chaps, whence fat and froth distill'd,
With well-gnaw'd bones of bull-beef fill'd.
Straight with neck upstretched he howls,
Eyes that glare, and throat that growls,
And with vociferations vain
Stuns the poor preacher's dizzy brain.
Onward his tottering Reverence hitches,
The deck beneath him rolls and pitches,
Till from its shelf an empty keg
Down dancing drives against his leg.
Pensive on a cask of gin
He sat, and stroked his aching shin;
While near him snored in drunken state
The carcass of the slumbering mate,
Facing to a starboard beam
Tim put to flight the seaman's dream,
Discharging thrice, in accents dread,
Yells, that almost might wake the dead:
Till the tost blankets part asunder,
And forth these sullen grumblings thunder.
MATE. What rascal with his thumps and screaming
Dares break the quiet of my dreaming?
Whose hand is this that pulls my head,
Labouring to lug me out of bed?
These ears have heard for weeks together
The long long roar of wintry weather,
Pumps, waves, ropes rattling, tempest squalling;
But such a pinching, and a bawling—
Zounds, I believe he'll twist my neck—
On deck, there, ho! ye dogs on deck,
What means this execrable yelling?
Have ye let all the fiends of hell in?
TIM. A traveller I, to thee unknown,
An honest man's and woman's son;
By hunger, thirst, and sickness undone,
And bound to Redriff first, then London.
But whose is that mug, pray? and spread
For whom yon comfortable bed?
MATE. The bed's our captain's bed, d'ye see—
I wish you'd let a body be—
The mug, you mean that has the grog in?
That, master, is the captain's noggin.
He, good soul, must have his potion:
Thirst can reach the sons of ocean.
Unwilling I my lips unclose;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.
TIM. Once again my call obey,
Master mate, awake, and say,
Which way I to bed may go;
Pray have ye one for me, or no?
MATE. There on the floor mattress and bolster are;
Who wish for more may ask th' upholsterer.
Now my weary lips I close;
Leave me, leave me, to repose.
TIM. Master mate, my call obey,
Rouse yourself once more and say,
If in this ship a poor starved sinner
May sup; to day I had no dinner.
MATE. Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard
Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward.
A sooty seaman blusters there,
Who never comb'd his lamp-black hair,
Nor scrub'd his angry brow, nor pared
The bristles of his shaggy beard.
He by your chop or stake shall sit,
Hissing on gridiron or on spit.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, I beg you, to repose.
TIM. Once yet again awake, and tell us,
Who are those surly ragged fellows;
Why each about so madly hops,
Howling, and tugging tarry ropes;
Why at the slacken'd cords they swear,
And fluttering sails that flap in air:
Tell me whence this hubbub rose.
Then I leave thee to repose.
MATE. Ha! no traveller art thou;
Fresh water friend, I smoke thee now,
As ignorant a rogue as ever—
TIM. No mate genteel, polite, and clever
Art thou; nor ever wert a sailor;
But, as I rather guess, a tailor.
MATE. Hie thee hence, and thank my mercy,
Or rather drowsiness, that spares ye.
Hence! or I'll drive you: for no fellow
Shall break my sleep with his vile bellow,
Till this cold pitchy cloud of night
Melt in the warmth of morning light;
That is, till four o'clock, or three, Sir,—
What, won't you go!—Here, Cesar, Cesar.—





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