The Cock. Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892). London Taverns. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. 1876-79. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes. England: Vols. I-IV

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.

London Taverns

The Cock

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)


Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,
How goes the time? ’T is five o’clock.
Go fetch a pint of port:
But let it not be such as that	5
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,	10
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,	15
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 favored lips of mine;	20
Until the charm have power to make
New lifeblood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break
In full and kindly blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board;	25
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;	30
And that child’s heart within the man’s
Begins to move and tremble.

Through many an hour of summer suns,
By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward runs	35
The current of my days:
I kiss the lips I once have kissed;
The gas-light wavers dimmer;
And softly, through a vinous mist,
My college friendships glimmer.	40

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	45
For that which all deny them,—
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
And all the world go by them.

Ah yet, though all the world forsake,
Though fortune clip my wings,	50
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	55
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.	60
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;	65
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,	70
I look at all things as they are,
But through a kind of glory.

Head-waiter, honored by the guest
Half-mused or reeling ripe,
The pint you brought me was the best	75
That ever came from pipe.
But though the port surpasses praise,
My nerves have dealt with stiffer.
Is there some magic in the place?
Or do my peptics differ?	80

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 seasoned brain about,	85
Unsubject to confusion,
Though soaked and saturate, out and out,
Through every convolution.

For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,	90
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,	95
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;	100
Or stowed (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!	105
She answered 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,	110
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,	115
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.	120

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,
And crammed a plumper crop;
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,	125
Crowed 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	130
A something-pottle-bodied boy,
That knuckled at the taw:
He stooped and clutched him, fair and good,
Flew over roof and casement:
His brothers of the weather stood	135
Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire,
And followed with acclaims,
A sign to many a staring shire,
Came crowing over Thames.	140
Right down by smoky Paul’s they bore,
Till, where the street grows straiter,
One fixed forever at the door,
And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?	145
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!
’T is but a steward of the can,
One shade more plump than common;	150
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	155
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:	160

Half fearful that, with self at strife,
I take myself to task;
Lest of the fulness of my life
I leave an empty flask:
For I had hope, by something rare,	165
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 gathered up;	170
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	175
Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone!
We know not what we know.
But for my pleasant hour, ’t is gone,
’T is gone, and let it go.	180
’T is gone: a thousand such have slipt
Away from my embraces,
And fallen into the dusty crypt
Of darkened forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went	185
Long since, and came no more;
With peals of genial clamor sent
From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;	190
The tavern-hours of mighty wits,—
Thine elders and thy betters.

Hours, when the poet’s words and looks
Had yet their native glow:
Nor yet the fear of little books	195
Had made him talk for show;
But, all his vast heart sherris-warmed,
He flashed his random speeches;
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarmed
His literary leeches.	200

So mix forever 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:	205
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,	210
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	215
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:	220
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,	225
Would quarrel with our lot;
Thy care is, under polished tins,
To serve the hot-and-hot;
To come and go, and come again,
Returning like the pewit,	230
And watched 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	235
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.	240

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 carvéd cross-bones, the types of Death,	245
Shall show thee past to heaven:
But carvéd cross-pipes, and, underneath,
A pint-pot, neatly graven.

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