Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Joe Wood

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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.
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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."

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