by Thomas Hood
Next a Lover — Oh! say, were you ever in love?
With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot?
Have you bow’d to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,
Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?
With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,
Did you walk up the aisle — the genteelest of men?
When I think of that beautiful vision anew,
Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!
I am withered and worn by a premature care,
And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;
Old Time’s busy hand has made free with my hair,
And I’m seeking to hide it — by writing for bays!
A SAILOR’S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.
There’s some is born with their straight legs by natur —
And some is born with bow-legs from the first —
And some that should have grow’d a good deal straighter,
But they were badly nurs’d,
And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs
Astride of casks and kegs:
I’ve got myself a sort of bow to larboard,
And starboard,
And this is what it was that warp’d my legs. —
’Twas all along of Poll, as I may say,
That foul’d my cable when I ought to slip;
But on the tenth of May,
When I gets under weigh,
Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship,
I sees the mail
Get under sail,
The only one there was to make the trip.
Well — I gives chase,
But as she run
Two knots, to one,
There warn’t no use in keeping on the race!
Well — casting round about, what next to try on,
And how to spin,
I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,
And bears away to leeward for the inn,
Beats round the gable,
And fetches up before the coach-horse stable:
Well — there they stand, four kickers in a row.
And so
I just makes free to cut a brown ‘un’s cable.
But riding isn’t in a seaman’s natur —
So I whips out a toughish end of yarn,
And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter
To splice me, heel to heel,
Under the she-mare’s keel,
And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!
My eyes! how she did pitch!
And wouldn’t keep her own to go in no line,
Tho’ I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line,
But always making lee-way to the ditch,
And yaw’d her head about all sorts of ways.
The devil sink the craft!
And wasn’t she trimendus slack in stays!
We couldn’t, no how, keep the inn abaft!
Well — I suppose
We hadn’t run a knot — or much beyond —
(What will you have on it?) — but off she goes,
Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond!
There I am! — all a-back!
So I looks forward for her bridle-gears,
To heave her head round on the t’other tack;
But when I starts,
The leather parts,
And goes away right over by the ears!
What could a fellow do,
Whose legs, like mine, you know, we’re in the bilboes,
But trim myself upright for bringing-to,
And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows,
In rig all snug and clever,
Just while his craft was taking in her water?
I didn’t like my berth tho’, howsomdever,
Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter, —
Says I — I wish this job was rayther shorter!
The chase had gain’d a mile
A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking;
Now, all the while
Her body didn’t take of course to shrinking.
Says I, she’s letting out her reefs, I’m thinking —
And so she swell’d, and swell’d,
And yet the tackle held,
‘Till both my legs began to bend like winkin.
My eyes! but she took in enough to founder!
And there’s my timbers straining every bit,
Ready to split,
And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!
Well, there — off Hertford Ness,
We lay both lash’d and water-logg’d together,
And can’t contrive a signal of distress;
Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather,
Tho’ sick of riding out — and nothing less;
When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn: —
Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter! —
And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn.
So I gets off, and lands upon the road,
And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn,
A-standing by the water.
If I get on another, I’ll be blow’d! —
And that’s the way, you see, my legs got bow’d!
JACK HALL.
’Tis very hard when men forsake
This melancholy world, and make
A bed of turf, they cannot take
A quiet doze,
But certain rogues will come and break
Their “bone” repose.
’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath,
And to the earth our earth bequeath,
Without Death-Fetches after death,
Who thus exhume us;
And snatch us from our homes beneath,
And hearths posthumous.
The tender lover comes to rear
The mournful urn, and shed his tear-
Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!
Alack! Alack!
The while his Sacharissa dear
Is a sack!
’Tis hard one cannot lie amid
The mould, beneath a coffin-lid,
But thus the Faculty will bid
Their rogues break through it,
If they don’t want us there, why did
They send us to it?
One of these sacrilegious knaves,
Who crave as hungry vulture craves,
Behaving as the goul behaves,
‘Neath church-yard wall —
Mayhap because he fed on graves,
Was nam’d Jack Hall.
By day it was his trade to go
Tending the black coach to and fro;
And sometimes at the door of woe,
With emblems suitable,
He stood with brother Mute, to show
That life is mutable.
But long before they pass’d the ferry,
The dead that he had help’d to bury,
He sack’d — (he had a sack to carry
The bodies off in)
In fact, he let them have a very
Short fit of coffin.
Night after night, with crow and spade,
He drove this dead but thriving trade,
Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’d
A single horsehair;
On corses of all kinds he prey’d,
A perfect corsair!
At last — it may be, Death took spite;
Or, jesting only, meant to fright-
He sought for Jack night after night.
The churchyards round;
And soon they met, the man and sprite,
In Pancras’ ground.
Jack, by the glimpses of the moon.
Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon,
An awful shape to meet at noon
Of night and lonely;
But Jack’s tough courage did but swoon
A minute only.
Anon he gave his spade a swing
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Aloft, and kept it brandishing,
Ready for what mishaps might spring
From this conjunction;
Funking indeed was quite a thing
Beside his function.
“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sands
Run out? the stoutest never stands
A chance with me, — to my commands
The strongest truckles;
But I’m your friend — so let’s shake hands,
I should say — knuckles.”
Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightly
And meaning nothing but uprightly,
Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,
His mull did proffer:
But Death, who had no nose, politely
Declin’d the offer.
Then sitting down upon a bank,
Leg over leg, shank over shank,
Like friends for conversation frank,
That had no check on:
Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,
“You’re Death, I reckon.”
The jaw-bone grinn’d:— “I am that same,
You’ve hit exactly on my name;
In truth it has some little fame
Where burial sod is.”
Quoth Jack, (and wink’d), “of course ye came
Here after bodies.”
Death grinn’d again and shook his head: —
“I’ve little business with the dead;
When they are fairly sent to bed
I’ve done my turn:
Whether or not the worms are fed
Is your concern.
“My errand here, in meeting you,
Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’
I’ve done what jobs I had — a few
Along this way;
If I can serve a crony too,
I beg you’ll say.”
Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:
And now I call the thing to mind,
This parish very strict I find;
But in the next ‘an
There lives a very well-inclined
Old sort of sexton.”
Death took the hint, and gave a wink
As well as eyelet holes can blink;
Then stretching out his arm to link
The other’s arm, —
“Suppose,” says he, “we have a drink
Of something warm.”
Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease
Spoke up at once:— “Why, what ye please;
Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,
A famous tap.”
But this suggestion seem’d to tease
The bony chap.
“No, no — your mortal drinks are heady,
And only make my hand unsteady,
I do not even care for Deady,
And loathe your rum;
But I’ve some glorious brewage ready.
My drink is — Mum!”
And off they set, each right content —
Who knows the dreary way they went?
But Jack felt rather faint and spent.
And out of breath;
At last he saw, quite evident,
The Door of Death.
All other men had been unmann’d
To see a coffin on each hand,
That served a skeleton to stand
By way of sentry;
In fact, Death has a very grand
And awful entry.
Throughout his dismal sign prevails,
His name is writ in coffin nails;
The mortal darts make area rails;
A skull that mocketh,
Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails
Whoever knocketh.
And lo! on either side, arise
Two monstrous pillars — bones of thighs,
A monumental slab supplies
The step of stone,
Where waiting for his master lies
A dog of bone.
The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,
The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell,
The ghastly knocker rose and fell,
But caused no riot;
The ways of Death, we all know well
Are very quiet.
Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind;
Quoth Death, “I really hope you’ll find
The entertainment to your mind,
As I shall treat ye —
A friend or two of goblin kind,
I’ve asked to meet ye,”
And lo! a crowd of spectres tall,
Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall,
Were standing — every ghastly ball —
An eager watcher.
“My friend,” says Death— “friends, Mr. Hall,
The body-snatcher.”
Lord, what a tumult it produced.
When Mr. Hall was introduced!
Jack even, who had long been used
To frightful things,
Felt just as if his back was sluic’d
With freezing springs!
Each goblin face began to make
Some horrid mouth — ape — gorgon — snake;
And then a spectre-hag would shake
An airy thigh-bone;
And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll break
Your bone, with my bone!
Some ground their teeth — some seem’d to spit —
(Nothing, but nothing came of it,)
A hundred awful brows were knit
In dreadful spite.
Thought Jack— “I’m sure I’d better quit
Without good-night.”
One skip and hop and he was clear,
And running like a hunted deer,
As fleet as people run by fear
Well spurr’d and whipp’d,
Death, ghosts, and all in that career
Were quite outstripp’d.
But those who live by death must die;
Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly;
And when his latter end drew nigh.
Oh! what a swarm
Of doctors came, — but not to try
To keep him warm.
No ravens ever scented prey
So early where a dead horse lay,
Nor vultures sniff’d so far away
A last convulse:
A dozen “guests” day after day
Were “at his pulse.”
’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees,
How still they watch ‘d by twos and threes.
But Jack a very little ease
Obtain’d from them;
In fact he did not find M. D.’s
Worth one D —— M.
The passing bell with hollow toll
Was in his thought — the dreary hole!
Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,
And then a cough: —
“There’s something weighing on my soul
I wish was off;
“All night it roves about my brains,
All day it adds to all my pains,
It is concerning my remains
When I am dead:”
Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes
Drew near his bed.
“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraid
A dozen pangs my heart invade;
But when I drove a certain trade
In flesh and bone,
There was a little bargain made
About my own.”
Twelve suits of black began to close,
Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose,
Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows,
At once drew round;
Twelve noses turn’d against his nose,
Twelve snubs profound.
“Ten guineas did not quite suffice,
And so I sold my body twice;
Twice did not do — I sold it thrice,
Forgive my crimes!
In short I have rece
ived its price
A dozen times!
Twelve brows got very grim and black,
Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,
Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack
Took up position,
Ready to share the dying Jack
By long division.
Twelve angry doctors wrangled so,
That twelve had struck an hour ago,
Before they had an eye to throw
On the departed;
Twelve heads turn’d round at once, and lo!
Twelve doctors started.
Whether some comrade of the dead,
Or Satan took it in his head
To steal the corpse — the corpse had fled!
’Tis only written,
That “there was nothing in the bed,
But twelve were bitten!”
THE WEE MAN.
A ROMANCE.
It was a merry company,
And they were just afloat,
When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,
Came up and hailed the boat.
“Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,
And will you let me in?
A slender space will serve my case,
For I am small and thin.”
They saw he was a dwarfish man,
And very small and thin;
Not seven such would matter much,
And so they took him in.
They laughed to see his little hat,
With such a narrow brim;
They laughed to note his dapper coat,
With skirts so scant and trim.
But barely had they gone a mile,
When, gravely, one and all
At once began to think the man
Was not so very small:
His coat had got a broader skirt,
His hat a broader brim;
His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out
A very proper limb.
Still on they went, and as they went,
More rough the billows grew, —
And rose and fell, a greater swell,
And he was swelling too!
And lo! where room had been for seven,