TERRENCE, THIS IS STUPID STUFF
~ by A. E. Housman
“Terence, this is stupid stuff.
You eat your victuals fast enough.
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the bellyache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead.
It sleeps well, the horned head.
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad.
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.”
Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think.
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past.
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried halfway home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad,
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky.
Heigho, the tale was all a lie.
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing more remained to do
But begin the game anew.
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,
I’d face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
‘Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale.
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it. If the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour.
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul’s stead,
And I will friend you, if I may
In the dark and cloudy day.
There was a king reigned in the East.
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get there fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth.
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store.
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat.
They put strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up.
They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt.
Them it was their poison hurt.
— I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.
LXII, one of the concluding pieces from the poem-cycle, Shropshire Lad, originally titled Poems By Terence Hearsay in manuscript.
The legend of the ancient king Mithridates is that he inured himself to various poisons by taking very small doses of them himself.