Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE JOURNEY AND OBSERVATIONS OF A COUNTRYMAN: A DEATHBED, by JOHN HAWTHORN



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE JOURNEY AND OBSERVATIONS OF A COUNTRYMAN: A DEATHBED, by                    
First Line: A little house there stood within a glen
Last Line: Before a wretch that used his parents ill....
Subject(s): Family Life; Ingratitude; Poverty; Relatives; Ungratefulness


A LITTLE house there stood within a glen,
But rather seemed a hole or fox's den;
Instead of straw, the cot was thatched with furze;
Around the door grew nettles, docks and burs,Where neither was seen corn, oats
or hay,
But a few rags that on the bushes lay;
And from the door, I heard a woman crying,
'Alas! alas! my husband's just a-dying':
Thinks I, awhile into this house I'll go,
It's good to visit all such scenes of woe;So in I steps.—Now if I could
relate
How poverty here sat, on her throne of state,
How smoke did choke me, and the soot did drop,
And in the floor stood many a crooked prop;
No windows, but a few old shattered panes,
And walls all crumbling with the oozing rains:
These things I pass, and only this I'll say,
That on a wisp the owner dying lay;
Naught did him cover but a dirty sheet,
And on the floor lay his bare naked feet;
Strongly he gasped, and stared, and strove for breath,
And struggled in the agonies of death:
I stood appalled, the tears rushed in my eyes,
To see my fellow creature's agonies;
Sweat dewed my face, my heart it fell a-beating,
To think of soul and body separating;
His poor, disconsolate wife sat on the bed,
And strove for to support his sinking head;
Whilst his two daughters sat by the bed side;
Sorely they wept, but yet in silence cried.
Says I, 'This man cannot live long, it's plain;
Has he no son for to keep up his name?'
'Oh yes,' the woman cries, 'I have a son,
A graceless wretch, that's to the cock-fight gone;
He broke my box, and took the cash away,
That was to lay his father in the clay;
But oh! alas! I now may hold my tongue,
I should have kept him down when he was young.'
Says I, 'It's strange he thinks it not a sin.'
Just as I said the word, the son came in;
A boorish clown with a rough tawdry head,
That was between a yellow and a red;
His clothes were flying, and all torn in rags,
No shoes on's feet, or stockings on his legs;
A great large rope was tied round his middle,
His shins were burnt blacker than a griddle;
So drunk that he could scarcely keep a leg,
And smelled of liquor like a brandy keg;
He really had a bad look in his eye,
And yet the rogue was near to six feet high;
Had a great staff that would have killed a bull,
Or dashed in pieces a ram's horny skull.
When he came in, he wildly at me stared;
Tobacco spittle hung upon his beard:
He passed his father quite unnoticed by,
Nor once unto the bed did turn his eye;
And though the phlegm did rattle in his throat,
He heeded him no more than an old goat;
He to the corner went, and down did sit,
And muttered out, 'Is he no better yet?'
And though the sun's fierce heat would roasted eggs,
He drew the fire still between his legs.
I grew enraged:—says I, 'You clumsy fool,
Raise up your heavy buttocks off that stool;
The man's no better, nor will ever be,
Till he does launch into eternity.'
He glimmered up, through his long sandy hair,
And like a tiger he did at me stare:
'Down on your knees,' says I, 'and make petition,
To ease your father out of this condition.'
'Well, I'll begin,' says he; 'curse on the day
That e'er the ginger cock did run away;
But though on him I lost my good half-crown,
I knocked great Armstrong, the hander, down;
'Twas that good staff that staggered cocker Ned';
With that he wheeled his cudgel round his head.
'Your coin,' says I, 'was better than your knockings,
It would have bought a pair of shoes and stockings,
Or laid your father underneath a stone;
But that is not my business, I must own.'
If that I durst, I fainly would deride him,
But, faith, I feared the staff that stood beside him:
I said no more, the mother shook her head,
And in a few minutes more the man was dead.
Oh! then I thought their shouts would rend the skies,
And even the ragged son set up his cries;
He leaped up with a most hideous squeak,
And cries, 'I thought he would not die this week';
The woman's grief was great, I ne'er saw stronger;
So out I came, I could not stand it longer.
No sight to me was ever half so hateful,
As children to their parents being ungrateful;
I would excuse a man that blood did spill,
Before a wretch that used his parents ill....





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