Plymouth Tavern

A Cornish Poem (In English)

This is a poem I started writing quite a while ago, but never got around to finishing until today. I put the bulk of it on here once before, but I’m doing it again from start to finish. I am not Cornish, and I don’t know anyone who is, or how they might feel about the English for that matter. I know however that I for one don’t particularly care for the arrangement.

I had originally called it Teignmouth Tavern, but Plymouth makes a bit more sense. Here it is:

I can’t recall the time of day
When we were forced to make our way
Into a most unwholesome spot
Unwritten of by dear Sir Scott
The dour frame like a sour old toad
Towered over the pitied road
The road which had without relief
To look skyward in disbelief 
Expecting that at any second
Its deeds in life would sure be reckoned 
The tottering sack of beams and nails 
Would pass beyond the mortal pale
And tumbling down in dust and gloom
Encase the path in musty tomb

Yet it seemed the way had naught to fear
For it had thus been for many a year
And hap this den will carry on
Until at last celestial dawn
Will purge away the dark and dim
And turn to dust the black and grim
And all that is without redemption 
Will not find unjust exemption 
Along with all the filth and rot
Will be cast this cursed spot
Its stones and beams and emblems fell
Thrown full into the fire of hell
Along with all its vicious boarders
Wicked wights and burgling hoarders

Mongrel muts beneath the tables
Rats like tyrants ruled the stables 
Mould crept up and down the walls 
Besotted vagrants filled the halls
Closely clutching childhood friends
With bits of wax upon their ends
They wait at night for some lost love
Or blessing unsent from above
Or boast all night how in their prime
They easily could take on nine
Or how when gathering winter fuel
One asked a Spaniard for a duel

And this was for no other qualm
Than that he had a branch of palm
Which swinging round to swat at flies
Besmacked our man across the eyes 
The Spanish don accepted him 
And sent a bullet through his shin
But as this one toward him sped
He sent one through the Spaniard’s head
And so according to the story 
His limp has caused by pride and glory 
Not as some were wont to claim
That his wife had become untame

He coming home in drunken haze 
From being missing for some days
She showered him with blow and whack 
And landed him upon his back
And lifting high in trembling hand
A footstool which her dear great aunt
Had given her without suspicion 
Violence would be its mission
The stool falls: the drunkard groans
There is no doubt of shattered bones
With leg as black as ripe charcoal 
He crawls to the nocturnal hole
That night he sobbed and whimpered long
But no one listened to his song
And so it was till now that he 
Was forced to walk unsteadily
Of course both tales might be untrue
So be it - either one will do

But on the day that we set foot
Inside that place of bones and soot
This shameless blackguard was asleep
Lying somewhat in a heap
The rain which pushed us through the door
Lay in puddles on the floor
The roof had been stretched very thin
The rain was always set to win
We tossed our boots into a corner 
Amidst the ranks of friend and foreigner 
The barman handed down a glass
Which about us we began to pass
For we had between us thirty pence 
The consequence of a tight railed fence 

Which squeezed me so as I went through 
(I admit, I was the size of two)
It squeezed me dear my face went blue
I lost both gloves and hat and shoe 
My pants and pockets parted ways 
My jacket burned up in the craze 
My wallet fell straight in a hole 
The burrow of a greedy mole 
Who snatched it up as quick as death 
And took what little I had left 
I had no love for this small brute
Filthy thief of golden fruit
Hidden in his earthen hall
Waiting for the next ripe fall

So it was that without backing
The barman found our pockets lacking
For far too thirsty for one measure 
We all indulged to fullest pleasure 
When found to be of straitened means
The barman yelled to shake the beams
He took us by our boot and scruff
His methods were by all means rough
Grabbing two in each thick arm
He gave us over to great harm
If only we had known his might
We would have never stopped our flight

Regretting now our careless thieving 
We saw the barman fast receding 
We flew the span of fifty furrows
One for every freshborn sorrow
(Or so it felt as down we sailed
And felt the rock upon our tails)
And landing down at last we saw
The men who carry out the law
We’d run three days across the moors
Pursued by murderous Saxon boors
A failed attempt to stand our ground
A penny placed against a pound
Next time perhaps the tide will turn
And Kernow’s English yoke will burn