Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE HEN, by PHOEBE CARY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE HEN, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Once, a long time ago, so good stories begin
Last Line: But whatever it was, he was certainly dead!
Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; Bars & Bartenders; Drunkards; Alcohol Abuse; Pubs; Taverns; Saloons


ONCE, a long time ago, so good stories begin,
There stood by a roadside an old-fashioned inn;
An inn, which the landlord had named "The Blue Hen,"
While he, by his neighbors, was called "Uncle Ben;"

At least, they quite often addressed him that way
When ready to drink but not ready to pay;
Though when he insisted on having the cash,
They went off, muttering "Rummy," and "Old Brandy Smash."

He sold barrels of liquor, but still the old "Hen"
Seemed never to flourish, and neither did "Ben;"
For he drank up the profits, as every one knew,
Even those who were drinking their profits up, too.

So, with all they could drink, and with all they could pay,
The landlord grew poorer and poorer each day;
Men said, as he took down the gin from the shelf,
"The steadiest customer there was himself."

There was hardly a man living in the same street
But had too much to drink and too little to eat;
The women about the old "Hen" got the blues;
The girls had no bonnets, the boys had no shoes.

When a poor fellow died, he was borne on his bier
By his comrades, whose hands shook with brandy and fear;
For of course, they were terribly frightened, and yet,
They went back to "The Blue Hen" to drink and forget!

There was one jovial farmer who could n't get by
The door of "The Blue Hen" without feeling dry;
One day he discovered his purse growing light,
"There must be a leak somewhere," he said. He was right!

Then there was the blacksmith (the best ever known
Folks said, if he'd only let liquor alone)
Let his forge cool so often, at last he forgot
To heat up his iron and strike when 't was hot.

Once a miller, going home from "The Blue Hen," 't was said,
While his wife sat and wept by his sick baby's bed,
Had made a false step, and slept all night alone
In the bed of the river, instead of his own.

Even poor "Ben" himself could not drink of the cup
Of fire forever without burning up;
He grew sick, fell to raving, declared that he knew
No doctors could help him; and they said so, too.

He told those about him, the ghosts of the men
Who used in their life-times to haunt "The Blue Hen,
Had come back each one bringing his children and wife,
And trying to frighten him out of his life.

Now he thought he was burning; the very next breath
He shivered and cried, he was freezing to death;
That the peddler lay by him, who, long years ago,
Was put out of "The Blue Hen," and died in the snow.

He said that the blacksmith who turned to a sot,
Laid him out on an anvil and beat him, red-hot;
That the builder, who swallowed his brandy fourth proof,
Was pitching him downward, head first, from the roof.

At last he grew frantic; he clutched at the sheet,
And cried that the miller had hold of his feet;
Then leaped from his bed with a terrible scream,
That the dead man was dragging him under the stream.

Then he ran, and so swift that no mortal could save;
He went over the bank and went under the wave;
And his poor lifeless body next morning was found
In the very same spot where the miller was drowned.

"'T was n't liquor that killed him," some said, "that was plain;
He was crazy, and sober folks might be insane!"
"'T was delirium tremens," the coroner said,
But whatever it was, he was certainly dead!





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