A Worm Will Turn
I LOVE a man who’ll smile and jokeWhen with misfortune crowned;Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke,And as he breaks his daily toke,Conundrums gay propound.
Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP,He scoffed at Fortune’s frown;He gaily drained his bitter cup—Though Fortune often threw him up,It never cast him down.
Though years their share of sorrow bring,We know that far aboveAll other griefs, are griefs that springFrom some misfortune happeningTo those we really love.
E’en sorrow for another’s woeOur BERNARD failed to quell;Though by this special form of blowNo person ever suffered so,Or bore his grief so well.
His father, wealthy and well clad,And owning house and park,Lost every halfpenny he had,And then became (extremely sad!)A poor attorney’s clerk.
All sons it surely would appal,Except the passing meek,To see a father lose his all,And from an independence fallTo one pound ten a week!
But JUPP shook off this sorrow’s weight,And, like a Christian son,Proved Poverty a happy fate—Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait,To lure poor sinners on.
With other sorrows BERNARD coped,For sorrows came in packs;His cousins with their housemaids sloped—His uncles forged—his aunts eloped—His sisters married blacks.
But BERNARD, far from murmuring(Exemplar, friends, to us),Determined to his faith to cling,—He made the best of everything,And argued softly thus:
“’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knackToo rudely to condemn—My aunts, repentant, may come back,And blacks are nothing like as blackAs people colour them!”
Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,Maintained relentless fight:His grandmamma next lost her life,Then died the mother of his wife,But still he seemed all right.
His brother fond (the only linkTo life that bound him now)One morning, overcome by drink,He broke his leg (the right, I think)In some disgraceful row.
But did my BERNARD swear and curse?Oh no—to murmur loth,He only said, “Go, get a nurse:Be thankful that it isn’t worse;You might have broken both!”
But worms who watch without concernThe cockchafer on thorns,Or beetles smashed, themselves will turnIf, walking through the slippery fern,You tread upon their corns.
One night as BERNARD made his trackThrough Brompton home to bed,A footpad, with a vizor black,Took watch and purse, and dealt a crackOn BERNARD’S saint-like head.
It was too much—his spirit rose,He looked extremely cross.Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,But no—he bowed to countless blows,But kicked against this loss.
He finally made up his mindUpon his friends to call;Subscription lists were largely signed,For men were really glad to findHim mortal, after all!