Classic Poem

'Tis no tale of heroism, 'tis no tale of storm and strife,
But of ordinary boozing, and of dull domestic life —
Of the everlasting friction that most husbands must endure —
Tale of nagging and of drinking — and a secret whisky cure.

Name of Jones — perhaps you know him — small house-agent here in town —
(Friend of Smith, you know him also — likewise Robinson and Brown),
Just a hopeless little husband, whose deep sorrows were obscure,
And a bitter nagging missis — and death seemed the only cure.

'Twas a common sordid marriage, and there's little new to tell —
Save the pub to him was heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between them — purgatory to be sure —
And, as far as Jones could make out — well, there wasn't any cure.

'Twas drink and nag — or nag and drink — whichever you prefer —
Till at last she couldn't stand him any more than he could her.
Friends and relatives assisted, telling her (with motives pure)
That a legal separation was the only earthly cure.

So she went and saw a lawyer, who, in accents soft and low,
Asked her firstly if her husband had a bank account or no;
But he hadn't and she hadn't, they in fact were very poor,
So he bowed her out suggesting she should try some liquor cure.

She saw a drink cure advertised in the Sydney Bulletin —
Cure for brandy, cure for whisky, cure for rum and beer and gin,
And it could be given secret, it was tasteless, swift and sure —
So she purchased half a gallon of that Secret Whisky Cure.

And she put some in his coffee, smiling sweetly all the while,
And he started for the office rather puzzled by the smile —
Smile or frown, he'd have a whisky, and you'll say he was a boor —
But perhaps his wife had given him an overdose of Cure.

And he met a friend he hadn't seen for seven years or more —
It was just upon the threshold of a private bar-room door —
And they coalesced and entered straight away, you may be sure —
But of course they hadn't reckoned with a Secret Whisky Cure.

Jones, he drank, turned pale, and, gasping, hurried out the back way quick,
Where, to his old chum's amazement, he was violently sick;
Then they interviewed the landlord, but he swore the drink was pure —
It was only the beginning of the Secret Whisky Cure.

For Jones couldn't stand the smell of even special whisky blends,
And shunned bar-rooms to the sorrow of his trusty drinking friends:
And they wondered, too, what evil genius had chanced to lure
Him from paths of booze and friendship — never dreaming of a Cure.

He had noticed, too, with terror that a something turned his feet,
When a pub was near, and swung him to the other side the street,
Till he thought the devils had him, and his person they'd immure
In a lunatic asylum where there wasn't any Cure.

He consulted several doctors who were puzzled by the case —
As they mostly are, but never tell the patient to his face —
Some advised him " Try the Mountains for this malady obscure; "
But there wasn't one could diagnose a Secret Whisky Cure.

And his wife, when he was sober? — Well, she nagged him all the more!
And he couldn't drown his sorrow in the pewter as of yore:
So he shot himself at Manly and was sat upon by Woore,
And found rest amongst the spirits from the Secret Whisky Cure.

And the moral? — well, 'tis funny — or 'tis woman's way with men —
She's remarried to a drunkard who assaults her now and then,
And they get on fairly happy, he's a brute and he's a boor,
But she's never tried her second with a Secret Whisky Cure.