Classic Poem

When to my house you come, dear Dean,
Your humble friend to entertain,
Through dirt and mire along the street,
You find no scraper for you feet:
At this, you storm and stamp and swell,
Which serves to clean your feet as well:
By steps ascending to the hall,
All torn to rags, with boys and ball.
Fragments of lime about the floor,
A sad, uneasy parlor door,
Besmeared with chalk, and nicked with knives
(A pox upon all careless wives!)
Are the next sights you must expect;
But do not think they're my neglect.
Ah, that these evils were the worst!
The parlor still is further curst;
To enter there if you advance,
If in you get, it is by chance.
How oft in turns have you and I
Said thus, “Let me.” “No, let me try.”
“This turn will open it, I engage.”
You push me from it in a rage!
Turning, twisting, forcing, fumbling,
Stamping, staring, fuming, grumbling.
At length it opens; in we go;
How glad are we to find it so!
Conquests, through pains and dangers, please
Much more than those we gain with ease.

If you're disposed to take a seat,
The moment that it feels your weight
Out go its legs and down you come
Upon your reverend deanship's bum.
Hence learn and see old age displayed,
When strength and vigor are decayed,
The joints relaxing with their years;
Then what are mortal men, but chairs?

The windows next offend your sight:
Now they are dark, now they are light;
The shuts a-working to and fro
With quick succession come and go.
So have I seen in human life
The same in an uneasy wife,
By turns affording joy and sorrow,
Devil today and saint tomorrow.

Now to the fire, if such there be,
But now 'tis rather smoke you see;
In vain you seek the poker's aid,
Or tongs, for they are both mislaid.
“Come stir it up.” “Ho, Mr. Joker,
How can I stir it without a poker?”

“The bellows take; their battered nose
Will serve for poker, I suppose.”
Now you begin to rake—alack!
The grate is tumbled from its back;
The coals upon the hearth are laid.
“Stay, sir. I'll run and call the maid.
She'll make our fire again complete;
She knows the humor of the grate.”

“Deuce take your maid and you together!
This is cold comfort in cold weather!”

“Now all, you see, is well again;
Come be in humor, Mr. Dean,
And take the bellows; use them so.”

“These bellows were not made to blow.
Their leathern lungs are in decay;
They can't e'en puff the smoke away.”

“And is your Rev'rence vexed at that?
Get up, a-God's name. Take your hat!
Hang 'em, say I, that have no shift;
Come, blow the fire, good Doctor Swift.
Trifles like these, if they must tease you,
Pox take those fools that strive to please you.
Therefore, no longer be a quarr'ler
Either with me, sir, or my parlor.
If you can relish ought of mine—
A bit of meat, a glass of wine—
You're welcome to't, and you shall fare
As well as dining with the Mayor.”

“You saucy scab, you tell me so!
Why, booby-face, I'd have you know
I'd rather see your things in order
Than dine in state with the Recorder.
For water I must keep a clutter,
Then chide your wife for stinking butter,
Or getting such a deal of meat
As if you'd half the town to eat.
That wife of yours, the devil's in her—
I've told her of this way of dinner
Five hundred times, but all in vain—
Here comes a leg of beef again!
O that that wife of yours would burst!
Get out and serve the lodgers first,
Pox take them all for me! I fret
So much I cannot eat my meat;
You know I'd rather have a slice.”

“I know, dear sir, you're always nice;
You'll see them bring it in a minute;
Here comes the plate, and slices in it;
Therefore sit down and take your place;
Do you fall to, and I'll say Grace.”