Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works
Page 44
Making his journey sloppier, not shorter;
Aye, there they go, a dozen of outsides,
Performing on ‘a Stage with real water!’
A dripping Pauper crawls along the way,
The only real willing out-of-doorer,
And says, or seems to say,
‘Well, I am poor enough — but here’s a pourer!’
The scene in water colours thus I paint,
Is your own Festival, you Sloppy Saint!
Mother of all the Family of Rainers!
Saint of the Soakers!
Making all people croakers,
Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers!
And why you mizzle forty days together,
Giving the earth your water-soup to sup,
I marvel — Why such wet, mysterious weather?
I wish you’d clear it up!
Why cast such cruel dampers
On pretty Pic Nics, and against all wishes
Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers,
And volunteer, unask’d, to wash the dishes?
Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot,
To cling like lady-birds around a tree —
Why spoil a Gipsy party at their tea,
By throwing your cold water upon hot?
Cannot a rural maiden, or a man,
Seek Hornsey-Wood by invitation, sipping
Their green with Pan,
But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping!
Why upon snow-white table-cloths and sheets,
That do not wait, or want a second washing,
Come squashing?
Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets,
As if there were no Water-Cart contractors,
No pot-boys spilling beer, no shop-boys ruddy —
Spooning out puddles muddy,
Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors!
A Queen you are, raining in your own right,
Yet oh! how little flatter’d by report!
Even by those that seek the Court,
Pelted with every term of spleen and spite.
Folks rail and swear at you in every place;
They say you are a creature of no bowel;
They say you’re always washing Nature’s face,
And that you then supply her, —
With nothing drier,
Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel!
The whole town wants you duck’d, just as you duck it,
They wish you on your own mud porridge supper’d,
They hope that you may kick your own big bucket,
Or in your water-butt go souse! heels up’ard!
They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle,
They’d spill the water in your veins to stop it —
Be warn’d! You are too partial to a mizzle —
Pray drop it! —
THE SCHOOLMASTER’S MOTTO
The Admiral compelled them all to strike.’ — Life of Nelson.
Hush! silence in School — not a noise!
You shall soon see there’s nothing to jeer at,
Master Marsh, most audacious of boys!
Come!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
So this morn in the midstof the Psalm,
The Miss Siffkins’s school you must leer at,
You’re complained of — Sir! hold out your palm, —
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
You wilful young rebel, and dunce!
This offence all your sins shall appear at, —
You shall have a good caning at once —
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
You are backward, you know, in each verb,
And your pronouns you are not more clear at,
But you’re forward enough to disturb, —
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
You said Master Twigg stole the plumbs,
When the orchard he never was near at,
I’ll not punish wrong fingers or thumbs,
There!—’ Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
You make Master Taylor your butt,
And this morning his face you threw beer at.
And you struck him — do you like a cut?
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
Little Biddle you likewise distress,
You are always his hair, or his ear at —
He’s my Opt, Sir, and you are my Pess:
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
Then you had a pitcht fight with young Rous,
An offence I am always severe at!
You discredit to Cicero House!
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
You have made too a plot in the night,
To run off from the school that you rear at!
Come, your other hand, now, Sir, — the right,
There!— ‘Palmain qui meruit ferat!’
I’ll teach you to draw, you young dog!
Such pictures as I’m looking here at!
‘Old Mounseer making soup of a frog,’
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
You have run up a bill at a shop,
That in paying you’ll be a whole year at, —
You’ve but twopence a week, Sir, to stop!
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
Then at dinner you’re quite cock-ahoop,
And the soup you are certain to sneer at —
I have sipped it — it’s very good soup, —
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
T’other day when I fell o’er the form,
Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at? —
Well for you that my temper’s not warm, —
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
Why, you rascal! you insolent brat!
All my talking you don’t shed a tearat,
There — take that, Sir! and that! that! and that!
There!— ‘Palmam qui meruit ferat!’
THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION
A PATHETIC BALLAD
‘Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!’ — Mercutio.
I
’Twas twelve o’clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim,
Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.
II
Said he, ‘Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup —
When, whiter than the table-cloth,
A ghost came rising up!
III
‘O, father dear, O, mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim,
You know when some one went to sea, —
Don’t cry — but I am him!
IV
‘You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your absent Jack,
But oh, I am come here to say
I’m never coming back!
V
‘From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering “too much Sow,” we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs! —
VI
‘The ship we pump’d till we could see
Old England from the tops
When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel’s Chops.
VII
‘Just give a look in Norey’s chart,
The very place it tells;
I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mix’d with shells.
VIII
‘Well, there we are till “hands aloft,”
We have at last a call; —
The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate’s parrot, too, and all.
IX
‘But oh, my spirit cannot rest,
In Davy Jones’s sod,
Till I’ve appear’d to you and said, —
Don’t sup on that ‘ere Cod!
X
‘You live on land, and little think
What passes in the sea;
Last Sunday week, at 2 p.m.,
That Cod was picking me! —
XI
‘Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,
They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one.
XII
‘O, do not eat those oysters then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave,
They suck’d my blood like imps!
XIII
‘Don’t eat what brutes would never eat,
The brutes I used to pat, —
They’ll know the smell they used to smell,
Just try the dog and cat!’
XIV
The Spirit fled — they wept his fate,
And cried, Alack, alack!
At last up started brother Jim,
‘Let’s try if Jack was Jack!’
XV
They call’d the Dog, they call’d the Cat,
And little Kitten too,
And down they put the Cod and sauce,
To see what brutes would do.
XVI
Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,
But munch’d the Cod — and little Kit
Quite feasted on the shrimps!
XVII
The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
O, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!
A STORM AT HASTINGS
AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN
’Twas August — Hastings every day was filling —
Hastings, that ‘greenest spot on memory’s waste!’
With crowds of idlers willing or unwilling
To be bedipped — be noticed — or be braced,
And all things rose a penny in a shilling.
Meanwhile, from window and from door, in haste
‘Accommodation bills’ kept coming down,
Gladding ‘the world of letters’ in that town.
Each day pour’d in new coach-fulls of new cits,
Flying from London smoke and dust annoying, —
Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits,
And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying.
Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits,
And quakers of both sexes, much enjoying
A morning’s reading by the ocean’s rim,
That sect delighting in the sea’s broad brim.
And lo! amongst all these appear’d a creature,
So small, he almost might a twin have been
With Miss Crachami — dwarfish quite in stature,
Yet well proportion’d — neither fat nor lean, —
His face of marvellously pleasant feature,
So short and sweet a man was never seen —
All thought him charming at the first beginning —
Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!
He seem’d in love with chance — and chance repaid
His ardent passion with her fondest smile,
The sunshine of good luck, without a shade,
He staked and won — and won and staked — the bile
It stirr’d of many a man and many a maid,
To see at every venture how that vile —
Small gambler snatch’d — and how he won them too —
A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!
Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,
’Twas handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass,
And dreamt three times she garnish’d it with stocks
Of needles, silks, and cottons — but alas!
She lost it wide awake. — We thought Miss Cox
Was lucky — but she saw three caddies pass
To that small imp; — no living luck could loo him!
Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!
And so he climb’d — and rode, and won — and walk’d,
The wondrous topic of the curious swarm
That haunted the Parade. Many were balk’d
Of notoriety by that small form
Pacing it up and down: — some even talk’d
Of ducking him — when lo! a dismal storm
Stepp’d in — one Friday, at the close of day —
And every head was turn’d another way —
Watching the grander guest. It seem’d to rise
Bulky and slow upon the southern brink —
Of the horizon — fann’d by sultry sighs —
So black and threatening, I cannot think
Of any simile, except the skies
Miss Wiggins sometimes shades in Indian ink —
Miss-shapen blotches of such heavy vapour,
They seem a deal more solid than her paper.
As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave,
And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on
The stony-hearted beach some bards would have
It always rampant, in that idle fashion, —
Whereas the waves roll’d in, subdued and grave,
Like schoolboys, when the master’s in a passion,
Who meekly settle in and take their places,
With a very quiet awe on all their faces.
Some love to draw the ocean with a head,
Like troubled table-beer, — and make it bounce,
And froth, and roar, and fling, — but this, I’ve said,
Surged in scarce rougher than a lady’s flounce: —
But then, a grander contrast thus it bred
With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce —
Something more awful in the serious ear,
As one would whisper that a lion’s near —
Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder
Growl’d long — but low — a prelude note of death,
As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,
But still it mutter’d to the sea beneath
Such a continued peal, as made us wonder
It did not pause more oft to take its breath,
Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather,
And hardly cared to wed two words together, —
But watch’d the surly advent of the storm.
Much as the brown-cheek’d planters of Barbadoes
Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm
Meantime it steer’d, like Odin’s old Armadas,
Right on our coast; — a dismal, coal-black form; —
Many proud gaits were quell’d — and all bravadoes
Of folly ceased — and sundry idle jokers
Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.
So fierce the lightning flashed. — In all their days
The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing,
And they are used to many a pretty blaze,
To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing
With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays: —
And truly one could think without much lashing
The fancy, that those coasting clouds so awful
And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.
The gay Parade grew thin — all the fair crowd
Vanish’d — as if they knew their own attractions, —
For now the lightning through a near hand cloud
Began to make some very crooked fractions —
Only some few remain’d that were not cow’d,
A few rough sailors, who had been in actions,
And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo’s,
Lest it should blow, — were pulling up the Rose:
(No flower, but a boat) — some more were hauling
The Regent by the head: — another crew
With that same cry peculiar to their ca
lling —
Were heaving up the Hope: — and as they knew
The very gods themselves oft get a mauling
In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew
The Neptune rather higher on the beach,
That he might lie beyond his billows’ reach.
And now the storm, with its despotic power,
Had all usurp’d the azure of the skies,
Making our daylight darker by an hour,
And some few drops — of an unusual size —
Few and distinct — scarce twenty to the shower,
Fell like huge tear-drops from a Giant’s eyes —
But then this sprinkle thicken’d in a trice
And rain’d much harder — in good solid ice.
Oh! for a very storm of words to show
How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o’er us!
Handel would make the gusty organs blow
Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us; —
But ev’n his music seem’d composed and low,
When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus;
Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound,
And frozen comfits roll’d along the ground —
As big as bullets: — Lord! how they did batter
Our crazy tiles: — And now the lightning flash’d —
Alternate with the dark, until the latter
Was rarest of the two: — the gust too dash’d
So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter
Some panes, — and so it did — and first it smash’d
The very square where I had chose my station
To watch the general illumination.
Another, and another, still came in,
And fell in jingling ruin at my feet,
Making transparent holes that let me win