English Idyls, and Other Poems

Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue

Made at the Cock

Alfred Tennyson

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
    To which I most resort,
How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock.
    Go fetch a pint of port:
But let it not be such as that
    You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
    On Lusitanian summers.

No vain libation to the Muse,
    But may she still be kind,
And whisper lovely words, and use
    Her influence on the mind,
To make me write my random rhymes,
    Ere they be half-forgotten;
Nor add and alter, many times,
    Till all be ripe and rotten.

I pledge her, and she comes and dips
    Her laurel in the wine,
And lays it thrice upon my lips,
    These favour’d lips of mine;
Until the charm have power to make
    New life-blood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break
    In full and kindly blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board;
    Her gradual fingers steal
And touch upon the master-chord
    Of all I felt and feel.
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
    And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child’s heart within the man’s
    Begins to move and tremble.

Thro’ many an hour of summer suns
    By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward runs
    The current of my days:
I kiss the lips I once have kiss’d;
    The gas-light wavers dimmer;
And softly, thro’ a vinous mist,
    My college friendships glimmer.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
    Unboding critic-pen,
Or that eternal want of pence,
    Which vexes public men,
Who hold their hands to all, and cry
    For that which all deny them—
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
    And all the world go by them.

Ah yet, tho’ all the world forsake,
    Tho’ fortune clip my wings,
I will not cramp my heart, nor take
    Half-views of men and things.
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
    There must be stormy weather;
But for some true result of good
    All parties work together.

Let there be thistles, there are grapes;
    If old things, there are new;
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
    Yet glimpses of the true.
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
    We lack not rhymes and reasons,
As on this whirligig of Time
    We circle with the seasons.

This earth is rich in man and maid;
    With fair horizons bound:
This whole wide earth of light and shade
    Comes out, a perfect round.
High over roaring Temple-bar,
    And, set in Heaven’s third story,
I look at all things as they are,
    But thro’ a kind of glory.

Head-waiter, honour’d by the guest
    Half-mused, or reeling-ripe,
The pint, you brought me, was the best
    That ever came from pipe.
But tho’ the port surpasses praise,
    My nerves have dealt with stiffer.
Is there some magic in the place?
    Or do my peptics differ?

For since I came to live and learn,
    No pint of white or red
Had ever half the power to turn
    This wheel within my head,
Which bears a season’d brain about,
    Unsubject to confusion,
Tho’ soak’d and saturate, out and out,
    Thro’ every convolution.

For I am of a numerous house,
    With many kinsmen gay,
Where long and largely we carouse
    As who shall say me nay:
Each month, a birthday coming on,
    We drink defying trouble,
Or sometimes two would meet in one,
    And then we drank it double;

Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
    Had relish, fiery-new,
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept,
    As old as Waterloo;
Or stow’d, when classic Canning died,
    In musty bins and chambers,
Had cast upon its crusty side
    The gloom of ten Decembers.

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is!
    She answer’d to my call,
She changes with that mood or this,
    Is all-in-all to all:
She lit the spark within my throat,
    To make my blood run quicker,
Used all her fiery will, and smote
    Her life into the liquor.

And hence this halo lives about
    The waiter’s hands, that reach
To each his perfect pint of stout,
    His proper chop to each.
He looks not like the common breed
    That with the napkin dally;
I think he came like Ganymede,
    From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
    Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,
    And cramm’d a plumper crop;
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
    Crow’d lustier late and early,
Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
    And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy,
    Till in a court he saw
A something-pottle-bodied boy,
    That knuckled at the taw:
He stoop’d and clutch’d him, fair and good,
    Flew over roof and casement:
His brothers of the weather stood
    Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,
    And follow’d with acclaims,
A sign to many a staring shire,
    Came crowing over Thames.
Right down by smoky Paul’s they bore,
    Till, where the street grows straiter,
One fix’d for ever at the door,
    And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?
    How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
    Among the chops and steaks!
’Tis but a steward of the can,
    One shade more plump than common;
As just and mere a serving-man
    As any born of woman.

I ranged too high: what draws me down
    Into the common day?
Is it the weight of that half-crown,
    Which I shall have to pay?
For, something duller than at first,
    Nor wholly comfortable,
I sit, my empty glass reversed,
    And thrumming on the table:

Half-fearful that, with self at strife
    I take myself to task;
Lest of the fullness of my life
    I leave an empty flask:
For I had hope, by something rare,
    To prove myself a poet;
But, while I plan and plan, my hair
    Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began,
    Till they be gather’d up;
The truth, that flies the flowing can,
    Will haunt the vacant cup:
And others’ follies teach us not,
    Nor much their wisdom teaches;
And most, of sterling worth, is what
    Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone!
    We know not what we know.
But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone,
    ’Tis gone, and let it go.
’Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt
    Away from my embraces,
And fall’n into the dusty crypt
    Of darken’d forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went
    Long since, and came no more;
With peals of genial clamour sent
    From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
    From misty men of letters;
The tavern-hours of mighty wits—
    Thine elders and thy betters.

Hours, when the Poet’s words and looks
    Had yet their native glow:
Not yet the fear of little books
    Had made him talk for show:
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm’d,
    He flash’d his random speeches;
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm’d
    His literary leeches.

So mix for ever with the past,
    Like all good things on earth!
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last,
    At half thy real worth?
I hold it good, good things should pass:
    With time I will not quarrel:
It is but yonder empty glass
    That makes me maudlin-moral.

Head-waiter of the chop-house here,
    To which I most resort,
I too must part: I hold thee dear
    For this good pint of port.
For this, thou shalt from all things suck
    Marrow of mirth and laughter;
And, wheresoe’er thou move, good luck
    Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence,
    The sphere thy fate allots:
Thy latter days increased with pence
    Go down among the pots:
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam
    In haunts of hungry sinners,
Old boxes, larded with the steam
    Of thirty thousand dinners.

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
    Would quarrel with our lot;
Thy care is, under polish’d tins,
    To serve the hot-and-hot;
To come and go, and come again,
    Returning like the pewit,
And watch’d by silent gentlemen,
    That trifle with the cruet.

Live long, ere from thy topmost head
    The thick-set hazel dies;
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread
    The corners of thine eyes:
Live long, nor feel in head or chest
    Our changeful equinoxes,
Till mellow Death, like some late guest,
    Shall call thee from the boxes.

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
    To pace the gritted floor,
And, laying down an unctuous lease
    Of life, shalt earn no more;
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death,
    Shall show thee past to Heaven:
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath,
    A pint-pot neatly graven.

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