Thomas Johnson, Junior, the first Kentucky poet, who, for many years, enjoyed the sobriquet of the "Drunken Poet of Danville," was born in Virginia about 1760, and he came to Kentucky when twenty-five years of age. He settled at Danville, then a village, and immediately entered into the role of poet, punster, and ne'er-do-weel. Documentary evidence is extant to prove that Danville was a gay little town when the young Virginian arrived there about 1785; and he was early drawn into excesses, or led others into them. Johnson was a rather prolific maker of coarse satirical rhymes, which he finally assembled into a small pamphlet, and published them as The Kentucky Miscellany (Lexington, 1796). This was the first book of poems, if they may be so termed, printed in Kentucky. The original price of this pamphlet was nine pence the copy, but it is impossible to procure it today for any price, and there is not an extant copy of this first edition. The Kentucky Miscellany went into a second
EXTEMPORE GRACE [From The Kentucky Miscellany (Lexington, Kentucky, 1821)] O! Thou who blest the loaves and fishes Look down upon these empty dishes; And that same power that did them fill, Bless each of us, but d—— old Gill! DANVILLE [From the same] Accursed Danville, vile, detested spot, Where knaves inhabit, and where fools resort— Thy roguish cunning, and thy deep design, Would shame a Bluebeard or an Algerine. O, may thy fatal day be ever curst, When by blind error led, I entered first. KENTUCKY [From the same] I hate Kentucky, curse the place, And all her vile and miscreant race! Who make religion's sacred tie A mask thro' which they cheat and lie. Proteus could not change his shape, Nor Jupiter commit a rape With half the ease those villains can Send prayers to God and cheat their man! I hate all Judges here of late, And every Lawyer in the State. And all blockheads in Commission— Worse than the Baptist roaring rant, I hate the Presbyterian cant— Their Parsons, Elders, nay, the whole, And wish them gone with all my soul. HUDSON, WIFE MURDERER [From the same] Strange things of Orpheus poets tell, How for a wife he went to Hell; Hudson, a wiser man no doubt, Would go to Hell to be without! PARSON RICE [From the same] Ye fools! I told you once or twice, You'd hear no more from canting R——e; He cannot settle his affairs, Nor pay attention unto prayers, Unless you pay up your arrears. Oh, how in pulpit he would storm, And fill all Hell with dire alarm! Vengeance pronounced against each vice, And, more than all, curs'd avarice; Preach'd money was the root of ill; Consigned each rich man unto Hell; But since he finds you will not pay, Both rich and poor may go that way. 'Tis no more than I expected— The meeting-house is now neglected: All trades are subject to this chance, No longer pipe, no longer dance. THE POET'S EPITAPH [From the same] |