Thomas Cowherd

(March 20, 1817 – April 4, 1907 / England)

Grumblings - Poem by Thomas Cowherd

Man professes to be humble,
Signs himself 'your servant, sir!'
But he's very prone to grumble,
Till it forms his character.

Grumbles he about the weather,
Now too hot, anon too cold;
Fancies oft 'tis both together
Ere the day is twelve hours old.

Then the dryness of the season
Rouses up anew his ire;
Next its wetness without reason
Makes him grumbling bolts to fire.

Grumbles he of prospects darkening,
Now, because hard times have come,
And to evil promptings hearkening
By much grumbling spoils his home.

Hard to please in point of dinner,
Flings he grumblings at his wife,
Breaking her dear heart-the sinner!
Inch by inch in daily life.

Nor at night are matters mended;
Grumbles he if supper's late.
She had need to be offended,
Being tied to such a mate.

For a little kind enquiry
Of existing state of things
Might well curb his temper fiery,
As each day her troubles brings.-

Bonny Fred's about his teething,
Jane is sick in bed of mumps,
Chris from croup has labored breathing,
Maid-of-all work has the dumps.

Often thus are grumblings marring
Man's great duties in the world;
Filling it with strife and jarring,
Till God's judgments forth are hurled.

Grumblers sometimes vent their spite in
Gross abuse of those in power,
Promise well to show their might in
Doing right, had they their hour.

Give it them, and still they grumble,
Having not got all they want;
Neither are they longer humble,
Which but proves them full of cant.

Many will not cease their grumbling
Till death puts a stop to it.
May God save all such from tumbling
Into the eternal Pit!

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 26, 2012

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