by Thomas Hood
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.
Case wore the liver’s livery that such
Must wear, their past excesses to denote,
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey’s, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature’s staining — one of those
We call fast colours — merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.
Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow,
Pompey’s black busk, and the old Colonel’s yellow.
The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner,
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket,
And homeward turning his Hibernian thought,
Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.
Unhappily for Case’s scheme of quiet,
Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot, —
A fact recorded in each day’s diurnals,
Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,
Careless of news;
But Pompey always read these bloody journals,
Full of Killmany and of Killmore work,
The freaks of some O’Shaunessy’s shillaly,
Of morning frays by some O’Brien Burke,
Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly;
How scums deserving of the Devil’s ladle,
Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it, —
And if he found an infant in the cradle
Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it; —
In fact, he read of burner and of killer,
And Irish ravages, day after day,
Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say,
That ‘Pompey could not sleep on Pompey’s Pillar.’
Judge then the horror of the nigger’s face
To find — with such impressions of that dire land —
That Case, — his master, — was a packing case
For Ireland! —
He saw in fearful reveries arise,
Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men
Whose fame associate with Irish plots is,
Fitzgeralds — Tones — O’Connors — Hares — and then
‘Those Emmets’ not so ‘little in his eyes’
As Doctor Watts’s!
He felt himself piked, roasted, — carv’d and hack’d,
His big black burly body seemed in fact
A pincushion for Terror’s pins and needles, —
Oh, how he wish’d himself beneath the sun —
Of Afric — or in far Barbadoes — one
Of Bishop Coleridge’s new black beadles.
Full of this fright,
With broken peace and broken English choking,
As black as any raven and as croaking,
Pompey rushed in upon his master’s sight,
Plump’d on his knees, and clasp’d his sable digits,
Thus stirring Curiosity’s sharp fidgets —
‘O Massa! — Massa! — Colonel! — Massa Case! —
Not go to Ireland! — Ireland dam bad place; —
Dem take our bloods — dem Irish — every drop —
Oh why for Massa go so far a distance
To have him life?’ — Here Pompey made a stop,
Putting an awful period to existence.
‘Not go to Ireland — not to Ireland, fellow,
And murder’d — why should I be murder’d, Sirrah?’
Cried Case, with anger’s tinge upon his yellow, —
Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror
The Colonel’s saffron, and his own japan, —
‘Well, what has that to do — quick — speak outright, boy?’ —
‘O Massa’ — (so the explanation ran)
‘Massa be killed— ‘cause Massa Orange Man,
And Pompey killed— ‘cause Pompey not a White Boy!’
THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD
I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;
And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!
All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde!
With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
That deemd Her owne the Urchine’s Sinne, —
She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
Past being Whipt for fallynge in.
She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answerde round —
O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde
The Momente that her Care was drownd!
TO FANNY
‘Gay being, born to flutter.’ — Safe’s Glee.
Is this your faith, then, Fanny!
What, to chat with every Dun!
I’m the one, then, but of many,
Not of many, but the One!
Last night you smil’d on all, Ma’am,
That appear’d in scarlet dress;
And your Regimental Ball, Ma’am,
Look’d a little like a Mess.
I thought that of the Sogers
(As the Scotch say) one might do,
And that I, slight Ensign Rogers,
Was the chosen man and true.
But’Sblood! your eye was busy
With that ragamuffin mob
Colonel Buddell — Colonel Dizzy —
And Lieutenant-Colonel Cobb.
General Joblin, General Jodkin,
Colonels — Kelly, Felly, with
Majors — Sturgeon, Truffle, Bodkin,
And the Quarter-master Smith.
Major Powderum — MajorDowdrum —
Major Chowdrum — Major Bye —
Captain Tawney — Captain Fawney,
Captain Any-one — but I!
Deuce take it! when the regiment
You so praised, I only thought
That you lov’d it in abridgment,
But I now am better taught!
I went, as loving man goes,
To admire thee in quadrilles; —
But Fan, you dance fandangoes
With just any fop that wills!
I went with notes before us,
On the lay of Love to touch;
But with all the Corps in chorus,
Oh! it is indeed too much!
You once — ere you contracted
For the army — seem’d my own;
But now you laugh with all the Staff,
And I may sigh alone!
I know not how it chances,
When my passion ever dares,
But the warmer my advances,
Then the cooler are your airs.
I am, I don’t conceal it,
But I am a little hurt;
You’re a Fan, and I must feel it,
Fit for nothing but a Flirt!
I dreamt thy smiles of beauty
On myself alone did fall; —
But, alas! ‘Cosi Fan Tutti!’
It is thus, Fan, thus will all!
You have taken quite a mob in
Of new military flames; —
They would make a fine Round Robin
If I gave you all their names!
POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN
‘There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggins stretched beneath a rug. — Goldsmith.
STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS
Alas! of all the noxious things
That wait upon the poor,
Most cruel is that Felon-Fear
That haunts the ‘Debtor’s Door!’
Saint Sepulchre’s begins to toll,
The Sheriffs seek the cell: —
And tremble at the bell!
I look for beer, and yet I quake
With fright at every tap;
And dread a double-knock, for oh!
I’ve not a single rap!
SONNET WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE
Oh, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask:
The overseer is gone — that vandal elf —
And hemp, unpick’d, may go and hang itself,
While I, untask’d, except with Cowper’s Task,
In blessed literary leisure bask,
And lose the workhouse, saving in the works
Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes;
Eat prose and drink of the Castalian flask;
The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spence,
The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair —
Unlearned toil, unletter’d labours hence!
But, hark! I hear the master on the stair —
And Thomson’s Castle, that of Indolence,
Must be to me a castle in the air.
SONNET. — A SOMNAMBULIST
‘A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.’ — Byron.
Methought — for Fancy is the strangest gadder
When sleep all homely mundane ties hath riven —
Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder,
With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven:
Some bell, I know not whence, was sounding seven
When I set foot upon that long one-pair;
And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,
Nor yet of landing-place became aware;
Step after step in endless flight seem’d there;
But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still, —
To gain that blessed haven from all care,
Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill,
When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair —
Tramp — tramp — tramp — tramp — upon the Brixton Mill!
FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH
‘Aurum pot-a-bile:’ — Gold biles the pot. — Free translation.
Farewell then, my golden repeater,
We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop;
And hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!
To quit thee, my comrade diurnal,
My feelings will certainly scotch;
But oh! there’s a riot internal,
And Famine calls out for the Watch.
Oh! hunger’s a terrible trial,
I really must have a relief,
So here goes the plate of your dial
To fetch me some Williams’s beef!
As famish’d as any lost seaman,
I’ve fasted for many a dawn,
And now must play chess with the Demon,
And give it a check with a pawn.
I’ve fasted, since dining at Buncle’s,
Two days with true Perceval zeal —
And now must make up at my Uncle’s,
By getting a duplicate meal.
No Peachum it is, or young Lockit,
That rifles my fob with a snatch;
Alas! I must pick my own pocket,
And make gravy-soup of my watch!
So long I have wander’d à starver
I’m getting as keen as a hawk;
Time’s long hand must take up a carver,
His short hand lay hold of a fork.
Right heavy and sad the event is,
But oh! it is Poverty’s crime,
I’ve been such a Brownrigg’s Apprentice,
I thus must be ‘out of my Time.’
Alas! when in Brook Street the upper
In comfort I lived between walls,
I’ve gone to a dance for my supper,
But now I must go to Three Balls!
Folks talk about dressing for dinner,
But I have for dinner undrest;
Since Christmas, as I am a sinner,
I’ve eaten a suit of my best.
I haven’t a rag or a mummock
To fetch me a chop or a steak;
I wish that the coats of my stomach
Were such as my Uncle would take!
When dishes were ready with garnish
My watch nsed to warn with a chime —
But now my repeater must furnish
The dinner in lien of the time!
My craving will have no denials,
I can’t fob it off, if you stay,
So go, — and the old Seven Dials
Must tell me the time of the day.
Your chimes I shall never more hear ‘em,
To part is a Tic Douloureux!
But Tempus has his edax rerum,
And I have my Feeding-Time too!
Farewell then, my golden repeater,
We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop,
And Hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop.
THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS
‘The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners.’ — Picture of Isle of Wight.
One close of day— ’twas in the bay
Of Naples, bay of glory!
While light was hanging crowns of gold
On mountains high and hoary,
A gallant bark got under weigh,
And with her sails my story.
For Leghorn she was bound direct,
With wine and oil for cargo,
Her crew of men, some nine or ten,
The captain’s name was Iago;
A good and gallant bark she was,
La Donna (call’d) del Lago.
Bronzed mariners were hers to view,
With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,
Dark, shining eyes, and coal-black hair,
Meet heads for painter’s study;
But ‘midst their tan there stood one man
Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;
His brow was high, a loftier brow
Ne’er shone in song or sonnet,
His hair a little scant, and when
He doff’d his cap or bonnet,
One saw that Grey had gone beyond
A premiership upon it!
His eye — a passenger was he,
The cabin he had hired it, —
His eye was grey, and when he look’d
Around, the prospect fired it —
A fine poetic light, as if
The Appe-Nine inspired it.
His frame was stout, in height about
Six feet — well made and portly;
Of dress and manner just to give
A sketch, but very shortly,
His order seem’d a composite
Of rustic with the courtly.
He ate and quaff’d, and joked and laugh’d,
And chatted with the seamen,
And often task’d their skill and ask’d,
‘What weather is’t to be, man?’
No demonstration there appear’d
That he was any demon.
No sort of sign there was that he
Could raise a stormy rumpus.
Like Prospero make breezes blow,
And rocks and billows thump us, —
But little we supposed what he
Could with the needle compass!
Soon came a storm — the sea at first
Seem’d lying almost fallow
When lo! full crash, with billowy dash,
From clouds of black and yellow,
Came such a gale, as blows but once
A cent’ry, like the aloe I
Our stomachs we had just prepared
To vest a small amount in;
When, gush! a flood of brine came down
The skylight — quite a fountain,
And right on end the table rear’d,
Just like the Table Mountain.
Down rush’d the soup, down gush’d the wine,
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Each roll, its rôle repeating,
Roll’d down — the round of beef declar’d
For parting — not for meating!
Off flew the fowls, and all the game
Was ‘too far gone for eating!’
Down knife and fork — down went the pork,
The lamb too broke its tether;
Down mustard went — each condiment —
Salt — pepper — all together! —
Down every thing, like craft that seek
The Downs in stormy weather.
Down plunged the Lady of the Lake,
Her timbers seem’d to sever;
Down, down, a dreary derry down,
Such lurch she had gone never;
She almost seem’d about to take
A bed of down for ever!
Down dropt the captain’s nether jaw,
Thus robb’d of all its uses, —
He thought he saw the Evil One
Beside Vesuvian sluices,
Playing at dice for soul and ship,
And throwing Sink and Deuces.
Down fell the steward on his face,
To all the Saints commending;
And candles to the Virgin vow’d,
As save-alls ‘gainst his ending.
Down fell the mate, he thought his fate,
Check-mate, was close impending!
Down fell the cook — the cabin boy,
‘Their heads with fervour telling,
While alps of surge, with snowy verge,
Above the yards came yelling.
Down fell the crew, and on their knees
Shudder’d at each white swelling!
Down sunk the sun of bloody hue.
His crimson light a cleaver
To each red rover of a wave: