Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Joe Wood

Joe Wood.

Joe Wood he was a carpenter,
A straight-edged man of rules;
A cold once seized upon his chest,
And a thief upon his tools.

He called his wife in through the panes,
And, though much pained, he kissed her;
She placed a blister to his chest,
And for her pains he blessed her.

Next day he found his pain removed,
His tool-chest likewise gone;
"'Tis plain I cannot plane," he 'plained,
"For planes now I have none."

To quench his grief and taste relief
He drank a pint of gin;
His wife she thought a screw was loose
When he came hammering in.

"You're on the beer," she quick exclaimed;
"Not so," said Mr. Wood;
"But being in so great a strait,
I've got a little screwed.

"You know I have no compass now,
Though compassed round with care;
My square is also stolen away,
And hence I'm off the square.

"I ne'er again shall see my saw,
Nor mend your chairs and stools;
O, may the thief be braced to bits
Who chiselled all my tools.

"I am, indeed, a hard-ruled man,
If I ain't ruined, axe me;
The thought that I can't cramp a frame
Cramps all my frame and racks me.

"And now I sit upon the bench,
And on my panels gaze;
No rays of hope within me rise
Another pint to raise.

"To dream of being a gentleman
I must henceforth forbear;
For if I cannot drive a nail,
I cannot drive a pair."