Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CARELESS GOOD FELLOW, by JOHN OLDHAM


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CARELESS GOOD FELLOW, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: A pox of this fooling, and plotting of late
Last Line: This is the profession that never will alter.
Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics


A pox of this fooling and plotting of late,
What a pother and stir has it kept in the state!
Let the rabble run mad with suspicions and fears;
Let them scuffle and jar till they go by the ears.

Their grievances never shall trouble my pate,
So I can enjoy my dear bottle at quiet.
What coxcombs were those who would barter their ease
And their necks for a toy, a thin wafer and mass!

At old Tyburn they never had needed to swing
Had they been but true subjects to drink and their king.
A friend and a bottle is all my design;
He has no room for treason that's top-full of wine.

I mind not the members and makers of laws,
Let them sit or prorogue as His Majesty please;
Let them damn us to woollen -- I'll never repine
At my lodging when dead, so alive I have wine.

Yet oft in my drink I can hardly forbear
To curse them for making my claret so dear.
I mind not grave asses who idly debate
About right and succession, the trifles of state;

We've got a good king already, and he deserves laughter
That will trouble his head with who shall come after.
Come, here's to his health, and I wish he may be
As free from all care and all trouble as we.

What care I how leagues with the Hollander go,
Or intrigues betwixt Sidney and Monsieur d'Avaux?
What concerns it my drinking if Cassel be sold,
If the conqueror take it by storming or gold?

Good Bordeaux alone is the place that I mind,
And when the fleet's coming I pray for a wind.
The Bully of France, that aspires to renown
By dull cutting of throats and vent'ring his own,

Let him fight and be damned, and make matches and treat
To afford the newsmongers and coffeehouse chat.
He's but a brave wretch, while I am more free,
More safe, and a thousand times happier than he.

Come he, or the pope, or the devil to boot,
Or come faggot and stake, I care not a groat;
Never think that in Smithfield I porters will heat:
No, I swear, Mr. Foxe, pray excuse me for that!

I'll drink in defiance of gibbet and halter,
This is the profession that never will alter.







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