by Thomas Hood
‘Ha! Saint Peter! Saint Mark!’
Roar’d the Knight, frowning dark,
With an oath that was awful and bitter —
‘A young Maid to his dish!
Why, what more could he wish,
If the Beast were High-Born, and a Ritter!
‘Now by this our good brand,
And by this our Tight hand, —
By the badge that is borne on our banners,
If we can but once meet
With the Monster’s retreat,
We will teach him to poach on our Manors!’
Quite content with this vow,
With a scrape and a bow,
The glad Peasants went home to their flagons,
Where they tippled so deep,
That each clown in his sleep —
Dreamt of killing a legion of Dragons!
Thus engaged, the bold Knight
Soon prepared for the fight
With the wily and scaly marauder;
But ere battle began,
Like a good Christian man,
First he put all his household in order.
‘Double bolted and barr’d
Let each gate have a guard’ —
(Thus his rugged Lieutenant was bidden)
‘And be sure, without fault,
No one enters the vault
Where the Church’s gold vessels are hidden.
‘In the dark Oubliette,
Let you Merchant forget
That he e’er had a bark richly laden —
And that desperate youth,
Our own rival forsooth!
Just indulge with a Kiss of the Maiden!
‘Crush the thumbs of the Jew
With the vice and the screw,
Till he tells where he buried his treasure;
And deliver our word
To you sullen caged Bird,
That to-night she must sing for our pleasure!’
Thereupon, cap-a-pee,
As a Champion should be,
With the bald-headed Peasant to guide him,
On his War-horse he bounds,
And then, whistling his hounds,
Prances off to what fate may betide him! —
Nor too long do they seek,
Ere a horrible reek,
Like the fumes from some villanous tavern,
Sets the dogs on the snuff,
For they scent well enough
The foul Monster coil’d up in his cavern!
Then alighting with speed
From his terrified steed,
Which he ties to a tree for the present,
With his sword ready drawn,
Strides the Ritter High-born,
And along with him drags the scared Peasant!
‘O Sir Knight, good Sir Knight!
I am near enough quite —
I have shown you the Beast and his grotto:’ —
But before he can reach
Any farther in speech,
He is stricken stone-dead by Sir Otto!
Who withdrawing himself
To a high rocky shelf, —
Sees the Monster his tail disentangle
From each tortuous coil,
With a sudden turmoil,
And rush forth the dead Peasant to mangle.
With his terrible claws,
And his horrible jaws, —
He soon moulds the warm corse to a jelly;
Which he quickly sucks in
To his own wicked skin,
And then sinks at full stretch on his belly.
Then the Knight softly goes,
On the tips of his toes,
To the greedy and slumbering Savage,
And with one hearty stroke
Of his sword, and a poke,
Kills the Beast that had made such a ravage.
So, extended at length,
Without motion or strength,
That gorg’d Serpent they call the Constrictor,
After dinner, while deep —
In lethargical sleep,
Falls a prey to his Hottentot victor.
‘’Twas too easy by half!’
Said the Knight with a laugh;
‘But as nobody witness’d the slaughter,
I will swear, knock and knock,
By Saint Winifred’s clock,
We were at it three hours and a quarter!’
Then he chopped off the head
Of the Monster, so dread, —
Which he tied to his horse as a trophy;
And, with Hounds, by the same
Ragged path that he came,
Home he jogg’d proud as Sultan or Sophy!
Blessed Saints! what a rout
When the news flew about,
And the carcase was fetch’d in a waggon;
What an outcry rose wild
From man, woman, and child —
‘Live Sir Otto, who vanquish’d the Dragon!’ —
All that night the thick walls
Of the Knight’s feudal halls
Rang with shouts for the wine-cup and flagon;
Whilst the Vassals stood by,
And repeated the cry —
‘Live Sir Otto, who vanquish’d the Dragon!’
The next night, and the next,
Still the fight was the text,
’Twas a theme for the Minstrels to brag on!
And the Vassals’ hoarse throats
Still re-echoed the notes —
‘Live Sir Otto, who vanquish’d the Dragon!’
There was never such work
Since the days of King Stork,
When he lived with the Frogs at free quarters!
Not to name the invites
That were sent down of-nights,
To the villagers’ wives and their daughters!
It was feast upon feast,
For good cheers never ceased,
And a foray replenished the flagon;
And the Vassals stood by,
But more weak was the cry —
‘Live Sir Otto, who vanquish’d the Dragon!’
Down again sank the sun,
Nor were revels yet done —
But as ev’ry mouth had a gag on,
Though the Vassals stood round,
Deuce a word or a sound
Of ‘Sir Otto, who vanquish’d the Dragon!’ —
There was feasting aloft,
But, thro’ pillage so oft,
Down below there was wailing and hunger;
And affection ran cold;
And the food of the old,
It was wolfishly snatch’d by the younger!
Mad with troubles so vast,
Where’s the wonder at last
If the Peasants quite alter’d their motto!
And with one loud accord —
Cried out ‘Would to the Lord,
That the Dragon had vanquish’d Sir Otto!’
OUR LADY’S CHAPEL
A LEGEND OF COBLENZ
Whoe’er has crossed the Mosel Bridge,
And mounted by the fort of Kaiser Franz,
Has seen, perchance,
Just on the summit of St. Peter’s ridge,
A little open Chapel to the right,
Wherein the tapers aye are burning bright:
So popular, indeed, this holy shrine,
At least among the female population,
By night, or at high noon, you see it shine,
A very Missal for illumination!
Yet, when you please, at morn or eve, go by
All other Chapels, standing in the fields,
Whose mouldy, wifeless, husbandry but yields
Beans, peas, potatoes, mangel-wurzel, rye,
And, lo! the Virgin, lonely, dark, and hush,
Without the glimmer of a farthing rush!
But on Saint Peter’s Hill
The lights are burning, burning, burning still.
In fact, it is a pretty retail trade
To furnish forth the candles ready made;
And close beside the Chapel and the way,
A chandler, at her stall, sits day by day,
And sells, both long and short, the waxen tapers
Smarten’d with tinsel-foil and tinted papers.
To give of the mysterious truth an inkling,
Those who in this bright Chapel breathe a prayer
To ‘Unser Frow,’ and burn a taper there,
Are said to get a husband in a twinkling:
Just as she-glowworms, if it be not scandal,
Catch partners with their matrimonial candle.
How kind of blessed Saints in heav’n —
Where none in marriage, we are told, are giv’n —
To interfere below in making matches,
And help old maidens to connubial catches!
The truth is, that instead of looking smugly
(At least, so whisper wags satirical)
The votaries are all so old and ugly,
No man could fall in love but by a miracle!
However, that such waxen gifts and vows
Are sometimes for the purpose efficacious,
In helping to a spouse,
Is vouch’d for by a story most veracious.
A certain Woman, tho’ in name a wife,
Yet doom’d to lonely life,
Her truant husband having been away
Nine years, two months, a week, and half a day, —
‘Without remembrances by words or deeds, —
Began to think she had sufficient handle
To talk of widowhood and burn her weeds,
Of course with a wax-candle.
Sick, single-handed with the world to grapple,
Weary of solitude, and spleen, and vapours,
Away she hurried to Our Lady’s Chapel,
Full-handed with two tapers —
And pray’d as she had never pray’d before,
To be a bonâ fide wife once more. —
‘Oh holy Virgin! listen to my prayer!
And for sweet mercy, and thy sex’s sake,
Accept the vows and offerings I make —
Others set up one light, but here’s a pair!’ —
Her pray’r, it seem’d, was heard;
For in three little weeks, exactly reckon’d,
As blithe as any bird,
She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second; —
A fact that made her gratitude so hearty,
To ‘Unser Frow,’ and her propitious shrine,
She sent two waxen candles superfine,
Long enough for a Lapland evening party!
Rich was the Wedding Feast and rare —
What sausages were there! —
Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut:
With plenteous liquors to wash down good cheer;
Brantwein, and Rhum, Kirsch-wasser, and Krug Bier,
And wine so sharp that ev’ry one was cut.
Rare was the feast — but rarer was the quality
Of mirth, of smoky-joke, and song, and toast, —
When just in all the middle of their jollity —
With bumpers fill’d to Hostess and to Host,
And all the unborn branches of their house,
Unwelcome and unask’d, like Banquo’s Ghost,
In walk’d the long-lost Spouse!
What pen could ever paint
The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted!
The bridesmaids fitfully began to faint;
The bridesmen stared — some whistled and some grunted:
Fierce Hans the First look’d like a boar that’s hunted;
Poor Hans the Second like a suckling calf:
Meanwhile, confounded by the double miracle,
The two-fold Bride sobb’d out, with tears hysterical,
‘Oh Holy Virgin, you’re too good — by half!’
MORAL.
Ye Coblenz maids, take warning by the rhyme,
And as our Christian laws forbid polygamy
For fear of bigamy,
Only light up one taper at a time.
LOVE LANGUAGE OF A MERRY YOUNG SOLDIER
‘Ach Gretchen, mein Taubchen.’
O Gretel, my Dove, my heart’s Trumpet,
My Cannon, my Big Drum, and also my Musket,
O hear me, my mild little Dove,
In your still little room.
Your portrait, my Gretel, is always on guard,
Is always attentive to Love’s parole and watchword;
Your picture is always going the rounds,
My Gretel, I call at every hour!
My heart’s Knapsack is always full of you;
My looks they are quartered with you;
And when I bite off the top end of a cartridge
Then I think that I give you a kiss.
You alone are my Word of Command and orders,
Yea my Right-face, Left Face, Brown Tommy, and wine,
And at the word ‘Shoulder Arms!’
Then I think you say ‘Take me in your arms.’
Your eyes sparkle like a Battery,
Yea they wound like Bombs and Grenades;
As black as Gunpowder is your hair,
Your hand as white as Parading breeches!
Yes, you are the Match and I am the Cannon;
Have pity, my love, and give quarter,
And give the word of command
Wheel round
Into my heart’s Barrack Yard.’
WHIMSICALITIES: A PERIODICAL GATHERING (1844)
CONTENTS
ANACREONTIC FOR THE NEW YEAR.
A MORNING THOUGHT.
NO!
TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.
EPIGRAM ON MRS. PARKES’S PAMPHLET
THE FORGE.
SONNET: THE WORLD IS WITH ME
THE FLOWER
EPIGRAM: ON THE ART UNIONS
A BLACK JOB.
ON LIEUTENANT EYRE’S NARRATIVE OF THE DISASTERS AT CABUL
EPIGRAM ON A LATE CATTLE-SHOW IN SMITHFIELD
MORE HULLAH-BALOO
ON A CERTAIN LOCALITY
LAYING DOWN THE LAW
EPIGRAM: THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY
A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE
PARTY SPIRIT
ETCHING MORALISED
A REFLECTION
SPRING
A FIRST ATTEMPT IN RHYME
EPIGRAM ON THE CHINESE TREATY
THE SEASON
THE UNIVERSITY FEUD
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY
THE LEE SHORE
EPIGRAM: ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY
THE TURTLES
EPIGRAM: THREE TRAITORS
ANACREONTIC FOR THE NEW YEAR.
COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
Found a proper excuse or fit season.
For toasts to be honour’d, or pledges to pass,
Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,
Had finish’d the Months, like the flasks at a feast,
Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom
The past Year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey —
Days usher’d by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
May be wrung from some wretcheder cousin —
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
And ye, who have met with Adversity’s blast,
And been bow’d to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass’d,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury, —
&nb
sp; Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
A MORNING THOUGHT.
No more, no more will I resign
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.
With larks appointment one may fix
To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six
For fish that will not rise!
NO!
No sun — no moon!
No morn — no noon —
No dawn —
No sky — no earthly view —
No distance looking blue —
No road — no street — no “t’other side the way” —
No end to any Row —
No indications where the Crescents go —
No top to any steeple —
No recognitions of familiar people —
No courtesies for showing ‘em —
No knowing ‘em!
No traveling at all — no locomotion,
No inkling of the way — no notion —
“No go” — by land or ocean —
No mail — no post —
No news from any foreign coast —
No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility —
No company — no nobility —
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member —
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.
Dear Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smiled —