Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  My Aunt.

  Who ‘of all earthly things’ would boast,

  ‘He hated others’ brats the most,’

  And therefore made me feel my post?

  My Uncle.

  Who got in scrapes, an endless score,

  And always laid them at my door,

  Till many a bitter pang I bore?

  My Cousin.

  Who took me home when mother died,

  Again with father to reside, —

  Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

  My Stepmother.

  Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,

  And when I played cried ‘What a noise!’ —

  Girls always hector over boys —

  My Sister.

  Who used to share in what was mine,

  Or took it all, did he incline,

  ‘Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

  My Brother.

  Who stroked my head, and said ‘Good lad,’

  And gave me sixpence, ‘all he had; ‘

  But at the stall the coin was bad?

  My Godfather.

  Who, gratis, shared my social glass,

  But when misfortune came to pass,

  Referr’d me to the pump? Alas!

  My Friend.

  Through all this weary world, in brief,

  Who ever sympathized with grief, Or shared my joy — my sole relief?

  Myself.

  A VALENTINE

  THE WEATHER. TO P. MURPHY, ESQ., M.N.S.

  ‘These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action.’

  Dear Murphy, to improve her charms,

  Your servant humbly begs;

  She thanks you for her leash of arms,

  But wants a brace of legs.

  Moreover, as you promise folks,

  On certain days a drizzle;

  She thinks, in case she cannot rain,

  She should have means to mizzle.

  Some lightning too may just fall due,

  When woods begin to moult; —

  And if she cannot ‘fork it out,’

  She’ll wish to make a bolt!

  POEM, — FROM THE POLISH

  Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toastingfork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following verses.

  From seventy-two North latitude,

  Dear Kitty, I indite;

  But first I’d have you understand

  How hard it is to write.

  Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn,

  My Kitty, do not think, —

  Before I wrote these very lines,

  I had to melt my ink.

  Of mutual flames and lover’s warmth,

  You must not be too nice;

  The sheet that I am writing on

  Was once a sheet of ice!

  The Polar cold is sharp enough

  To freeze with icy gloss

  The genial current of the soul,

  E’en in a ‘Man of Ross.’

  Pope says that letters waft a sigh

  From Indus to the Pole;

  But here I really wish the post

  Would only ‘post the coal.’

  So chilly is the Northern blast,

  It blows me through and through;

  A ton of Wallsend in a note

  Would be a billet-doux.

  In such a frigid latitude

  It scarce can be a sin,

  Should Passion cool a little, where

  A Fury was iced in.

  I’m rather tired of endless snow,

  And long for coals again; —

  And would give up a Sea of Ice

  For some of Lambton’s Main.

  I’m sick of dazzling ice and snow,

  The sun itself I hate;

  So very bright, so very cold,

  Just like a summer grate.

  For opodeldoc I would kneel,

  My chilblains to anoint;

  O Kate, the needle of the north

  Has got a freezing point.

  Our food is solids — ere we put

  Our meat into our crops,

  We take sledge-hammers to our steaks

  And hatchets to our chops.

  So very bitter is the blast,

  So cutting is the air,

  I never have been warm but once,

  When hugging with a bear.

  One thing I know you’ll like to hear,

  Th’ effect of Polar snows, —

  I’ve left off snuff — one pinching day —

  From leaving off my nose.

  I have no ear for music now;

  My ears both left together;

  And as for dancing, I have cut

  My toes — it’s cutting weather.

  I’ve said that you should have my hand,

  Some happy day to come;

  But, Kate, you only now can wed

  A finger and a thumb.

  Don’t fear that any Esquimaux

  Can wean me from my own;

  The Girdle of the Queen of Love

  Is not the Frozen Zone.

  At wives with large estates of snow

  My fancy does not bite;

  I like to see a Bride — but not

  In such a deal of white.

  Give me for home a house of brick,

  The Kate I love at Kew! —

  A hand unchopped, — a merry eye;

  And not a nose, of blue!

  To think upon the Bridge of Kew,

  To me a bridge of sighs;

  Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles

  Are standing in my eyes!

  God knows if I shall e’er return,

  In comfort to be lull’d;

  But if I do get back to port,

  Pray let me have it mull’d.

  CONVEYANCING

  O London is the place for all,

  In love with loco-motion!

  Still to and fro the people go

  Like billows of the ocean;

  Machine or man, or caravan,

  Can all be had for paying,

  When great estates, or heavy weights,

  Or bodies want conveying.

  There’s always hacks about in packs,

  Wherein you may be shaken,

  And Jarvis is not always drunk,

  Tho’ always overtaken;

  In racing tricks he’ll never mix,

  His nags are in their last days,

  And slow to go, altho’ they show

  As if they had their fast days!

  Then if you like a single horse,

  This age is quite a cab-age,

  A car not quite so small and light

  As those of our Queen Mab age;

  The horses have been broken well,

  All danger is rescinded,

  For some have broken both their knees,

  And some are broken winded.

  If you’ve a friend at Chelsea end,

  The stages are worth knowing —

  There is a sort, we call ‘em short,

  Although the longest going —

  For some will stop at Hatchett’s shop,

  Till you grow faint and sicky,

  Perched up behind, at last to find,

  Your dinner is all dickey

  Long stages run from every yard:

  But if you’re wise and frugal,

  You’ll never go with any Guard

  That plays upon the bugle,

  ‘Ye banks and braes,’ and other lays,

  And ditties everlasting,

  Like miners going all your way,

  With boring and with blasting.

  Instead of journeys, people now

  May go upon a Gurney,

  With steam to do the horse’s work,

 
By powers of attorney;

  Tho’ with a load it may explode,

  And you may all be un-done!

  And find you’re going up to Heav’n,

  Instead of up to London!

  To speak of every kind of coach,

  It is not my intention; —

  But there is still one vehicle

  Deserves a little mention;

  The world a sage has call’d a stage,

  With all its living lumber,

  And Malthus swears it always bears

  Above the proper number.

  The law will transfer house or land

  For ever and a day hence,

  For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,

  You’ll never want conveyance;

  Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief!

  It is no sight for laughter —

  Away it goes, and leaves my nose

  To join in running after!

  SONNET. I HAD A GIG-HORSE

  Allegory — A moral vehicle. — Dictionary.

  I had a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,

  Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,

  He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;

  Although he sometimes kicked and shied aslant.

  I had a Chaise, and christen’d it Enjoyment,

  With yellow body, and the wheels of red,

  Because ’twas only used for one employment,

  Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.

  I had a wife, her nickname was Delight;

  A son called Frolic, who was never still:

  Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright!

  Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,

  Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite,

  And Pleasure fell a splitter on Paine’s Hill!

  EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST

  ‘My Tables! Meat it is, I set it down!’ — Hamlet.

  I think it was Spring — but not certain I am —

  When my passion began first to work;

  But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,

  And the season was over for pork.

  ’Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,

  Yes, — for Morris had asked me to dine, —

  And I thought I had never beheld such a face,

  Or so noble a turkey and chine.

  Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild,

  With sheer envy to witness my luck; —

  How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smil’d

  As I afterwards offered some duck.

  I looked and I languished, alas, to my cost,

  Through three courses of dishes and meats;

  Getting deeper in love — but my heart was quite lost,

  When it came to the trifle and sweets!

  With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,

  To her parents I told my designs —

  And then to herself I presented my hand,

  With a very fine pottle of pines!

  I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,

  And she did not object in the least; —

  I can’t tell the date — but we married, I know,

  Just in time to have game at the feast.

  We went to —— — it certainly was the seaside;

  For the next, the most blessed of morns,

  I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,

  Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

  O never may mem’ry lose sight of that year,

  But still hallow the time as it ought, —

  That season the ‘grass’ was remarkably dear,

  And the peas at a guinea a quart.

  So happy, like hours, all our days seem’d to haste,

  A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,

  So united in heart — so congenial in taste,

  We were both of us partial to brawn!

  A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,

  But then Death — I ne’er dreamt about that!

  Oh there’s nothing is certain in life, as I cried,

  When my turbot eloped with the cat! —

  My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,

  But the cause no physician could nab;

  But something it seemed like consumption, I fear,

  It was just after supping on crab.

  In vain she was doctor’d, in vain she was dosed,

  Still her strength and her appetite pined;

  She lost relish for what she had relish’d the most,

  Even salmon she deeply declin’d.

  For months still I linger’d in hope and in doubt,

  While her form it grew wasted and thin; —

  But the last dying spark of existence went out,

  As the oysters were just coming in! —

  She died, and she left me the saddest of men

  To indulge in a widower’s moan,

  Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then,

  As I ate my first natives alone!

  But when I beheld Virtue’s friends in their cloaks,

  And with sorrowful crape on their hats,

  O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-doors folks

  Were all crying — I think it was sprats! —

  I’M NOT A SINGLE MAN

  Double, single, and the rub.’ — Hoyle.

  ‘This, this is Solitude.’ — Byron.

  I

  Well, I confess, I did not guess

  A simple marriage vow

  Would makle me find all womenkind

  Such unkind women now!

  They need not, sure, as distant be

  As Java or Japan, —

  Yet every Miss reminds me this —

  I’m not a single man!

  II

  Once they made choice of my bass voice

  To share in each duett; —

  So well I danced, I somehow chanced

  To stand in every set:

  They now declare I cannot sing,

  And dance on Bruin’s plan;

  Me draw! — me paint! — me any thing! —

  I’m not a single man!

  III

  Once I was asked advice, and task’d

  What works to buy or not,

  And ‘would I read that passage out

  I so admired in Scott?’ —

  They then could bear to hear one read;

  But if I now began,

  How they would snub, ‘My pretty page,’

  I’m not a single man!

  IV

  One used to stitch a collar then,

  Another hemmed a frill;

  I had more purses netted then

  Than I could hope to fill.

  I once could get a button on,

  But now I never can —

  My buttons then were Bachelor’s, —

  I’m not a single man!

  V

  Oh how they hated politics

  Thrust on me by papa:

  But now my chat — they all leave that

  To entertain mamma.

  Mamma, who praises her own self,

  Instead of Jane or Ann,

  And lays ‘her girls’ upon the shelf —

  I’m not a single man! —

  VI

  Ah me, how strange it is the change,

  In parlour and in hall,

  They treat me so, if I but go

  To make a morning call.

  If they had hair in papers once,

  Bolt up the stairs they ran;

  They now sit still in dishabille —

  I’m not a single man!

  VII

  Miss Mary Bond was once so fond

  Of Romans and of Greeks; —

  She daily sought my cabinet,

  To study my antiques.

  Well, now she doesn’t care a dump

  For ancient pot or pan,

  Her taste at once is modernized —

  I’
m not a single man!

  VIII

  My spouse is fond of homely life,

  And all that sort of thing;

  I go to balls without my wife,

  And never wear a ring: —

  And yet each Miss to whom I come,

  As strange as Genghis Khan,

  Knows by some sign, I can’t divine, —

  I’m not a single man!

  IX

  Go where I will, I but intrude,

  I’m left in crowded rooms,

  Like Zimmerman on Solitude,

  Or Hervey at his Tombs.

  From head to heel, they make me feel,

  Of quite another clan; —

  Compelled to own, though left alone,

  I’m not a single man!

  X

  Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast

  A nose of Roman line,

  Will turn up even that in scorn

  Of compliments of mine:

  She should have seen that I have been

  Her sex’s partisan,

  And really married all I could —

  I’m not a single man! —

  XI

  ’Tis hard to see how others fare,

  Whilst I rejected stand, —

  Will no one take my arm because

  They cannot have my hand?

  Miss Parry, that for some would go

  A trip to Hindostan,

  With me don’t care to mount a stair —

  I’m not a single man!

  XII

  Some change, of course, should be in force,

  But, surely, not so much

  There may be hands I may not squeeze,