LOG-TOWN TAVERN

Through sandy wastes and floods of rain

To this dejected place I came,

Where swarthy nymphs, in tattered gowns,

From pine-knots catch their evening flame:

Where barren oaks, in close array,

With mournful melody condole;

Where no gay fabrics meet the eye,

Nor painted board, nor barber's pole.

Thou town of logs! so justly called,

In thee who halts at evening's close,

Not dreams from Jove, but hosts of fleas

Shall join to sweeten his repose.

A curse on this dejected place

Where cold, and hot, and wet, and dry,

And stagnant ponds of ample space

The putrid steams of death supply.

Since here I paced on weary steed

Ah, blame me not, should I repine

That sprightly girl, nor social bed,

Nor jovial glass this night is mine.

The landlord, gouged in either eye,

Here drains his bottle to the dregs,

Or borrows Susan's pipe, while she

Prepares the bacon and the eggs.

Jamaica, that inspires the soul,

In these abodes no time has seen

To dart its generous influence round,

To kindle wit and kill the spleen.

The squire of this disheartening inn

Affords to none the generous bowl,

Displays no Bacchus on the sign

To warm the heart and cheer the soul.

To cyder, drawn from tilted cask,

While each a fond attention paid

All grieved to see the empty flask,

Its substance gone, its strength decayed.

A rambling hag, in dismal notes

Screeched out a song, to cheer my grief;

Two lads their dull adventures told,

A shepherd each — and each a thief.

Dame justice here in rigour reigns —

Each has on each the griping paw:

Whoe'er with them a bargain makes,

Scheme as he will, it ends in law.

With scraps of songs and smutty words

Each lodger here adorns the walls:

The wanton muse no pencil gives,

A coal her mean idea scrawls.

No merry thought, no flash of wit

Was scrawled by this unseemly crew,

With pain I read the words they writ

Immodest and immoral too.

The god of verse, the poet's friend,

Whom Nature all indulgent finds —

That god of verse will never lend

His powers to such degraded minds.

In murmuring streams no chrystal wave

To cheer the wretched hamlet flows;

But frowning to the distant bog

Rosanna with the pitcher goes.

At dusk of eve the tardy treat

Was placed on board of knotty pine;

Each gaping gazed, to see me eat

While round me lay the slumbering swine.

Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand

Before me laid the mouldy pone;

May she still miss the joyous kiss,

Condemned to fret and sleep alone.

The horse that bore me on my way

Around me cast a wishful eye,

He looked, and saw no manger near,

And hung his head, and seemed to sigh.

At stump of pine, for want of stall,

All night, beneath a dripping tree,

Not fed with oats, but filled with wind,

And buckwheat straw, alone stood he.

Discouraged at so vile a treat,

Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn,

In haste, we left this dreary place,

Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.

May travellers dread to wander here,

Unless on penance they be bound —

O may they never venture near,

Such fleas and filthiness abound.

But should ye come — be short your stay,

For Lent is here forever kept —

Depart, ye wretches, haste away,

Nor stop to sleep — where I have slept.