by Thomas Hood
Ninny, Tinny,
Hummel, Bummel,
Bowski, Wowski.
All these are very good selectables;
But none of your plain pudding-andtames —
Folks that are called the hardest names
Are music’s most respectables.
Ev’ry woman, ev’ry man,
Look as foreign as you can,
Don’t cut your hair, or wash your skin,
Make ugly faces and begin!
Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears.
And now to show they understand it!
Miss Crow her scrannel throttle clears,
And all the rest prepare to band it.
Each scraper right for concertante,
Rozins the hair of Rozinante: —
Then all sound A, if they know which,
That they may join like birds in June;
Jack Tar alone neglects to tune,
For he’s all over concert-pitch.
A little prelude goes before,
Like a knock and ring at music’s door.
Each instrument gives in its name;
Then sitting in
They all begin
To play a musical round game.
Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand,
Leads a first fiddle to the band,
A second follows suit;
Anon the ace of Horns comes plump
On the two fiddles with a trump,
Puffindorf plays a flute.
This sort of musical revoke,
The grave bassoon begins to smoke,
And in rather grumpy kind
Of tone begins to speak its mind;
The double drum is next to mix,
Playing the Devil on Two Sticks —
Clamour, clamour,
Hammer, hammer,
While now and then a pipe is heard,
Insisting to put in a word,
With all his shrilly best,
So to allow the little minion
Time to deliver his opinion,
They take a few bars rest.
Well, little Pipe begins — with sole
And small voice going thro’ the hole, Beseeching,
Preaching, Squealing,
Appealing,
Now as high as he can go,
Now in language rather, low,
And having done — begins once more,
Verbatim what he said before.
This twiddling twaddling sets on fire
All the old instrumental ire,
And fiddles for explosion ripe,
Put out the little squeaker’s pipe;
This wakes bass viol — and viol for that,
Seizing on innocent little B flat,
Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat —
They all seem miching malicho!
To judge from a rumble unawares,
The drum has had a pitch downstairs;
And the trumpet rash,
By a violent crash,
Seems splitting somebody’s calico!
The viol too groans in deep distress,
As if he suddenly grew sick;
And one rapid fiddle sets off express, —
Hurrying,
Scurrying,
Spattering,
Clattering, —
To fetch him a Doctor of Music.
This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying
Beyond the Piano’s pacifying,
The cymbal
Gets nimble,
Triangle
Must wrangle,
The band is becoming most martial of bands,
When just in the middle,
A quakerly fiddle, —
Proposes a general shaking of hands!
Quaking,
Shaking,
Quivering,
Shivering,
Long bow — short bow — each bow drawing:
Some like filing, — some like sawing;
At last these agitations cease,
And they all get
The flageolet, —
To breathe ‘a piping time of peace.’
Ah, too deceitful charm,
Like light’ning before death,
For Scrapenberg to rest his arm,
And Puffmdorf get breath!
Again without remorse or pity,
They play ‘The Storming of a City,’
Miss S. herself compos’d and plann’d it —
When lo! at this renew’d attack,
Up jumps a little man in black, —
‘The very Devil cannot stand it! ‘
And with that,
Snatching hat,
(Not his own,)
Off is flown,
Thro’ the door,
In his black,
To come back,
Never, never, never more!
O Music! praises thou hast had,
From Dryden and from Pope,
For thy good notes, yet none I ‘hope,
But I, e’er praised the bad,
Yet are not saint and sinner even?
Miss Strummel on Cecilia’s level?
I One drew an angel down from heaven!
The other scar’d away the Devil!
A BLOW-UP
‘Here we go up, up, up.’ — The Lay of the First Minstrel.
Near Battle, Mr. Peter Baker
Was Powder-maker,
Not Alderman Flower’s flour, — the white that puffs
And primes and loads heads bald, or grey, or chowder,
Figgins and Higgins, Fippins, Filby, — Crowder,
Not vile apothecary’s pounded stuffs,
But something blacker, bloodier, and louder,
Gun-powder!
This stuff, as people know, is semper
Eadem; very hasty in its temper —
Like Honour that resents the gentlest taps,
Mere semblances of blows, however slight;
So powder fires, although you only p’rhaps
Strike light.
To make it therefore, is a ticklish business,
And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizziness,
For as all human flash and fancy minders,
Frequenting fights and Powder-works well know,
There seldom is a mill without a blow,
Sometimes upon the grinders.
But then — the melancholy phrase to soften,
Mr. B.’s mill transpir’d so very often!
And advertised — than all Price Currents louder,
‘Fragments look up — there is a rise in Powder,’
So frequently, it caused the neighbours’ wonder, —
And certain people had the inhumanity
To lay it all to Mr. Baker’s vanity,
That he might have to say— ‘That was my thunder’
One day — so goes the tale,
Whether, with iron hoof,
Not sparkle-proof, —
Some ninny-hammer struck upon a nail, —
Whether some glow-worm of the Guy Faux stamp,
Crept in the building, with Unsafety Lamp —
One day this mill that had by water ground,
Became a sort of windmill and blew round.
With bounce that went in sound as far as Dover, it
Sent half the workmen sprawling to the sky;
Besides some visitors who gained thereby,
What they had asked — permission ‘to go over it!’
Of course it was a very hard and high blow,
And somewhat differed from what’s called a flyblow.
At Cowes’ Regatta, as I once observed,
A pistol-shot made twenty vessels start;
If such a sound could terrify oak’s heart,
Think how this crash the human nerve unnerved.
In fact it was a very awful thing, —
As people know that have been used to battle,
In springing either mine or mill, you spring
A precious rattle!<
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The dunniest heard it — poor old Mr. F.
Doubted for once if be was ever deaf;
Through Tunbridge town it caused most strange alarms,
Mr and Mrs. Fogg,
Who lived like cat and dog,
Were shocked for once into each other’s arms.
Miss M. the milliner — her fright so strong,
Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long;
The veriest quakers quaked against their wish;
The ‘Best of Sons’ was taken unawares,
And kicked the ‘Best of Parents’ down the stairs:
The steadiest servant dropped the China dish;
A thousand started, though there was but one
Fated to win, and that was Mister Dunn,
Who struck convulsively, and hooked a fish!
Miss Wiggins, with some grass upon her fork,
Toss’d it just like a haymaker at work;
Her sister not in any better case,
For taking wine,
With nervous Mr. Pyne,
He jerked his glass of Sherry in her face.
Poor Mistress Davy,
Bobb’d off her bran-new turban in the gravy;
While Mr. Davy at the lower end,
Preparing for a Goose a carver’s labour,
Darted his two-pronged weapon in his neighbour,
As if for once he meant to help a friend.
The nurse-maid telling little ‘Jack-a-Norey,’
‘Bo-peep,’ and ‘Blue-cap’ at the house’s top,
Scream’d, and let Master Jeremiah drop
From a fourth storey!
Nor yet did matters any better go
With Cook and Housemaid in the realms below;
As for the Laundress, timid Martha Gunning,
Expressing faintness and her fears by fits
And starts, — she came at last but to her wits,
By falling in the ale that John left running.
Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind,
Struck all at once, deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind,
Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse, —
Then coming to his mind,
Was shocked to find,
Only a pair of shafts without a horse.
Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy’s!
From Prospect House, for urchins small and big,
Hearing the awful noise,
Out rushed a flood of boys,
Floating a man in black, without a wig; —
Some carried out one treasure, some another, —
Some caught their tops and taws up in a hurry,
Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley Murray,
But little Tiddy carried his big brother!
Sick of such terrors,
The Tunbridge folks resolv’d that truth should dwell
No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well,
But to warn Baker of his dangerous errors;
Accordingly to bring the point to pass,
They call’d a meeting of the broken glass,
The shatter’d chimney pots, and scatter’d tiles,
The damage of each part, —
And packed it in a cart,
Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr. Miles;
While Doctor Babblethorpe, the worthy Rector,
And Mr. Gammage, cutler to George Rex,
And some few more, whose names would only vex,
Went as a deputation to the ExPowder-proprietor and Mill-director.
Now Mr. Baker’s dwelling-house had pleased
Along with mill-materials to roam,
And for a time the deputies were teased, —
To find the noisy gentleman at home;
At last they found him with undamaged skin,
Safe at the Tunbridge Arms — not out — but Inn.
The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal,
Soon put his spoke in for the common weal —
A grave old gentlemanly kind of Urban, —
The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded,
And then unfolded,
By way of climax, Mrs. Davy’s turban;
He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding —
Knock’d down a lot without a bidding, —
How Mr. Miles, in fright, had giv’n his mare,
The whip she wouldn’t bear, —
At Prospect House, how Doctor Oates, not Titus,
Danced like Saint Vitus, —
And Mr. Beak, thro’ Powder’s misbehaving,
Cut off his nose whilst shaving; —
When suddenly, with words that seem’d like swearing,
Beyond a Licenser’s belief or bearing —
Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gammage
‘Who is to pay us, Sir’ — he argued thus,
‘For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus —
Cus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-dam-damage?’
Now many a person had been fairly puzzled
By such assailants, and completely muzzled;
Baker, however, was not dash’d with ease —
But proved he practised after their own system,
And with small ceremony soon dismiss’d ‘em,
Putting these words into their ears like fleas:
‘If I do have a blow, well, where’s the oddity? —
I merely do as other tradesmen do,
You, Sir, — and you — and you!
I’m only puffing off my own commodity!’
THE GHOST
A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD
‘I’ll be your second.’ — Liston.
In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.
But Brown and stout will both wear out,
One Friday he died hard,
And lelt a widow’d wife to mourn,
At twenty pence a yard.
Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax,
And wish’d, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.
With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing thus came about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church he asked her out!
Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand.
One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!
‘Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.!
Are these your sorrow’s deeds,
Already getting up a flame,
To burn your widow’s weeds?
‘It’s not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene; —
My Memory — like Rogers’s,
Should still be bound in green!
‘Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt —
I’m like an old Forget-Me-Not,
With all the leaves torn out!
‘To think that on that finger joint
Another pledge should cling;
Oh Bess! upon my very soul,
It struck like “Knock and Ring.”
‘A ton of marble on my breast
Can’t hinder my return;
Your conduct, Ma’am, has set my blood
A-boiling in my urn!
‘Remember, oh! remember, how
The marriage rite did run, —
If ever we one flesh should be,
’Tis now — when I have none!
‘And you, Sir — once a bosom friend —
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider you are kick’d.
‘A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plai
n,
Marry come up! — you marry, Ma’am,
And I’ll come up again.’
More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow, and off he went,
Like fowling-piece at cock!
ODE TO MADAME HENGLER
FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL
Oh, Mrs. Hengler! — Madame, — I beg pardon;
Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden!
Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff —
The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz,
Whose squibs are far more popular than his;
Whose works are much more certain to go off.
Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame;
With many a bang the public ear it courts;
And yet thy arrogance we never blame,
But take thy merits from thy own reports.
Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers,
We make no doubting, misbelieving comments,
Even in thy most bounceable of moments;
But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers! —
Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing,
Thy Rockets raise thee,
And Serpents praise thee,
As none beside are ever praised — by hissing!
Mistress of Hydropyrics,
Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics, —
Professor of a Fiery Necromancy,
Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts
With midnight sports,
Partaking very much of flash and fancy!
What thoughts had shaken all
In olden time at thy nocturnal revels, —
Each brimstone ball,
They would have deem’d an eyeball of the Devil’s!
But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright;
A modern Hubert to the royal ear,
Might whisper without fear,
‘My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night!
Nor would it raise one superstitious notion
To hear the whole description fairly out
‘One fixed — which t’other four whirl’d round about
With wond’rous motion.’
Such are the very sights
Thou workest, Queen of Fire; on earth and heaven,
Between the hours of midnight and eleven,
Turning our English to Arabian Nights,
With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons,
Blue stars and white.