The Pig (Anon)
It was an evening in November,
As I very well remember,
I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,
But my knees were all a-flutter,
And I landed in the gutter
And a pig came up and lay down by my side.
Yes, I lay there in the gutter
Thinking thoughts I could not utter
When a colleen passing by did softly say,
"You can tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses."
...And the pig got up, and slowly walked away!
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For my next choice, a poem by Thomas Hood. A long, long time ago, our English teacher read us one of his poems, Faithless Nelly Gray, and I remember being very impressed by this rhyming punster! However, for some years, all I could recall of the poem was one phrase - "For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-Second Foot." I couldn't even remember the title of the poem or the poet's name. Then, one day, I was idling through some poetry books in a bookshop in town, and came across the poem once again. I immediately bought the book, of course, just on the strength of this one poem. That's how much I loved it!This next poem was, until recently, unknown to me, but it is becoming another of my favourites.
Mary's Ghost, by Thomas Hood
'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bedside.
O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.
I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home,
I didn't stay long in it.
The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be!
You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent-like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone,
They've come and boned your Mary.
The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy's.
I vowed that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You'll find it there, at Dr Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.
As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,
There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t'other's in the City.
I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can;
As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.
I wish you'd go to Mr P.
And save me such a ride;
I don't half like the outside place,
They've took for my inside.
The cock it crows - I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.
Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie.
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Here's another offering by Mr Onymous! I think I might use this as my epitaph!!On a Tired Housewife (Anon)
Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where no help was hired.
Her last words on earth were: "Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing.
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they don't eat, there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But, having no voice, I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever."
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Amen to that, right!!!This next poem makes me glad I was a singleton and not a twin. I never realised what a trial that could be!
The Twins, by Henry Sambrooke Leigh
In form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,
And each for one another.
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reached an awful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
Yet not a soul knew which.
One day (to make the matter worse),
Before our names were fixed,
As we were being washed by nurse
We got completely mixed;
And thus, you see, by Fate's decree
(Or rather nurse's whim),
My brother John got christened me,
And I got christened him.
This fatal likeness even dogged
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogged
For John turned out a fool.
I put this question hopelessly
To everyone I knew -
What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you?
Our close resemblance turned the tide
Of my domestic life;
For somehow my intended bride
Became my brother's wife.
In short, year after year, the same
Absurd mistakes went on;
And when I died - the neighbours came
And buried brother John!
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And finally, a short poem by Alexander Pope, who was clearly a great wit, and surrounded by great twits!!!
The Fool and The Poet, by Alexander Pope
Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.
