Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A DROP OF GIN, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A DROP OF GIN, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Gin! Gin! A drop of gin!
Last Line: By plunging into the palace of gin!
Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; Drunkards; Alcohol Abuse


GIN! Gin! a drop of Gin!
What magnified monsters circle therein!
Ragged, and stained with filth and mud,
Some plague spotted, and some with blood!
Shapes of misery, shame, and sin!
Figures that make us loathe and tremble,
Creatures scarce human that more resemble
Broods of diabolical kin,
Ghost and vampvre, demon and Jin!

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!
The dram of Satan! the liquor of Sin! --
Distilled from the fell
Alembics of hell,
By Guilt, and Death, -- his own brother and twin! --
That man might fall
Still lower than all
The meanest creatures with scale and fin.
But, hold; -- we are neither Barebones nor Prynne,
Who lashed with such rage
The sins of the age;
Then, instead of making too much of a din,
Let Anger be mute,
And sweet Mercy dilute,
With a drop of pity, the drop of Gin!

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!
When, darkly, Adversity's days set in,
And the friends and peers
Of earlier years
Prove warm without, but cold within,
And cannot retrace
A familiar face
That's steeped in poverty up to the chin;
But snub, neglect, cold-shoulder, and cut
The ragged pauper, misfortune's butt;
Hardly acknowledged by kith and kin,
Because, poor rat!
He has no cravat,
A seedy coat, and a hole in that! --
No sole to his shoe, and no brim to his hat;
Nor a change of linen -- except his skin;
No gloves, no vest,
Either second or best;
And, what is worse than all the rest,
No light heart, though his trousers are thin --
While time elopes
With all golden hopes,
And even with those of pewter and tin;
The brightest dreams,
And the best of schemes,
All knocked down, like a wicket by Mynn.
Each castle in air
Seized by giant Despair,
No prospect in life worth a minnikin pin;
No credit, no cash,
No cold mutton to hash,
No broad -- not even potatoes to mash;
No coal in the cellar, no wine in the binn --
Smashed, broken to bits,
With judgments and writs,
Bonds, bills, and cognovits distracting the wits,
In the webs that the spiders of Chancery spin --
Till, weary of life, its worry and strife,
Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife;
Of poison -- a rope -- "louping over a linn."

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!
Oh! then its tremendous temptations begin,
To take, alas!
To the fatal glass; --
And happy the wretch that does not win
To change the black hue
Of his ruin to "blue" --
While angels sorrow, and demons grin --
And lose the rheumatic
Chill of his attic
By plunging into the Palace of Gin!





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