Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  In motions thou art second unto none,

  Though Fortune on thy motions seems to frown,

  For though you set a number down

  You seldom carry one.

  Great at a speech thou art, though some folks cough,

  But thou art greatest at a paring off.

  But never blench,

  Although in stirring up corruption’s worms —

  You make some factions

  Vulgar as certain fractions,

  Almost reduced unto their lowest terms.

  Go on, reform, diminish, and retrench,

  Go on, for ridicule not caring,

  Sift on from one to nine with all their noughts,

  And make state cyphers eat up their own aughts,

  And only in thy saving be unsparing;

  At soldiers’ uniforms make awful rackets,

  Don’t trim though, but untrim their jackets.

  Allow the tin mines no tin tax,

  Cut off the Great Seal’s wax;

  Dock all the dock-yards, lower masts and sails,

  Search foot by foot the Infantry’s amounts,

  Look into all the Cavalry’s accounts,

  And crop their horses’ tails.

  Look well to Woolwich and each money vote,

  Examine all the cannons’ charges well,

  And those who found th’ Artillery compel

  To forge twelve pounders for a five pound note.

  Watch Sandhurst too, its debts and its Cadets,

  Those Military pets.

  Take Army — no, take Leggy Tailors

  Down to the Fleet, for no one but a nincum

  Out of our nation’s narrow income

  Would furnish such wide trousers to the Sailors.

  Next take to wonder him,

  The Master of the Horse’s horse from under him;

  Retrench from those who tend on

  Royal ills

  Wherewith to gild their pills.

  And tell the Staghounds’ Master he must keep

  The deer, &c, cheap.

  Close as new brooms

  Scrub the Bed Chamber Grooms;

  Abridge the Master of the Ceremonies

  Of his very moneys;

  In short, at every salary have a pull,

  And when folks come for pay

  On quarter-day,

  Stop half, and make them give receipts in full.

  Oh, Mr. Hume, don’t drink,

  Or eat — or sleep, a wink,

  Till you have argued over each reduction,

  Let it be food to you, repose and suction.

  Tho’ you should make more motions by one half

  Than any telegraph,

  Item by item all these things enforce,

  Be on your legs till lame, and talk till hoarse;

  Have lozenges — mind, Dawson’s — in your pocket,

  And swing your arms till aching in their socket; —

  Or if awake you cannot keep,

  Talk of retrenchment in your sleep,

  Expose each Peachum, and shew up each Lockit,

  Go down to the M.P.’s before you sup,

  And while they’re sitting blow them

  As Guy Fawkes could not do with all his nous;

  But now we live in different Novembers,

  And safely you may walk into the House,

  First split its ears, and then divide its members!

  THE BALLAD

  O, when I was a little boy —

  This print the time recalls —

  What strips of song there hung along

  Old palings and old walls!

  O, how they flaunted in the air,

  And flutter’d on their strings!

  I’d heard of Muses, and they seemed

  Like feathers from their wings —

  Dim flimsy papers, little fit

  With Newland’s bills to rank;

  But O! there seem’d whole millions there

  In notes of Boyhood’s Bank!

  With what a charm of black and white

  They witch’d the urchin sense!

  How blest if I could stop and buy!

  How pensive — without pence!

  How hard, alas! if forced to pass

  By that enchanted place,

  In dismal sort — a farthing short —

  To long for ‘Chevy Chase.’

  One comfort liv’d — if pence were scant,

  There still was Mary Dunn —

  So stored with song, she seem’d the whole

  Nine Muses rolled in one.

  Her pocket money never went

  For cheesecake or for tart;

  She purchased all new songs, I had

  The old ones each by heart.

  When Mary set to sing, to read,

  All sport and play stood still —

  Her words could lock a waggon wheel,

  And stop the march to drill.

  Meanwhile, the tragic tale she told

  Of Babies in the Wood

  And gentle Redbreast, or that bold

  Cock Robin, Robin Hood,

  Will Scarlet, and his merry mates,

  Who Lincoln Green had on —

  I listen’d till I thought myself

  A little Little John. —

  O, happy times! O, happy rhymes!

  For ever ye’re gone by!

  Few now — if any — are the lays

  Can make me smile or sigh.

  Perchance myself am changed — perchance

  I do their authors wrong —

  But scarce a modern ballad now

  Seems worthy ‘an old song.’

  TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER

  Love thy Mother, little one!

  Kiss and clasp her neck again;

  Hereafter she may have a son

  Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.

  Love thy Mother, little one!

  Gaze upon her living eyes,

  And mirror back her love for thee;

  Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs

  To meet them when they cannot see.

  Gaze upon her living eyes! —

  Press her lips the while they glow

  With love that they have often told;

  Hereafter thou mayst press in woe,

  And kiss them till thine own are cold.

  Press her lips the while they glow!

  Oh! revere her raven hair!

  Although it be not silver-grey,

  Too early Death, led on by care,

  May snatch, save one dear lock away.

  Oh! revere her raven hair! —

  Pray for her at eve and morn,

  That Heav’n may long the stroke defer,

  For thou mayst live the hour forlorn,

  When thou wilt ask to die with her.

  Pray for her at eve and morn!

  EPIGRAM ON A PICTURE

  This picture very plainly shows

  How little many a painter knows

  Of colour, though he thinks it.

  T —— herein depicts a view,

  And underneath gamboge and blue

  Informs us that T. pinxit.

  ANSWER TO PAUPER

  Don’t tell me of buds and blossoms,

  Or with rose and vi’let wheedle —

  Nosegays grow for other bosoms,

  Churchwarden and Beadle!

  What have you to do with streams?

  What with sunny skies, or garish,

  Cuckoo songs or pensive dreams? —

  Nature’s not your parish!

  What right have such as you to dun

  For sun or moonbeams, warm or bright? —

  Before you talk about the sun,

  Pay for window-light!

  Talk of passions — amorous fancies;

  While your betters’ flames miscarry —

  If you love your Dolls and Nancys,

  Don’t we make you marry?

  Talk of wintry chill and storm,

 
Fragrant winds, that blanch your bones;

  You poor can always keep you warm,

  An’t there breaking stones?

  Suppose you don’t enjoy the spring,

  Roses fair and vi’lets meek,

  You cannot look for everything

  On eighteen pence a week!

  With seasons what have you to do? —

  If corn doth thrive, or wheat is harmed? —

  What’s weather to the cropless? You

  Don’t farm — but you are farm’d!

  Why everlasting murmurs hurl’d,

  With hardship for the text? —

  If such as you don’t like this world —

  We’ll pass you to the next.

  Overseer.

  JARVIS AND MRS. COPE

  A DECIDEDLY SERIOUS BALLAD

  In Bunhill Row, some years ago,

  There liv’d one Mrs. Cope;

  A pious woman she was call’d,

  As Pius as a Pope.

  Not pious in its proper sense,

  But chatt’ring like a bird

  Of sin and grace — in such a case

  Mag-piety’s the word.

  Cries she, ‘the Reverend Mr. Trigg

  This day a text will broach,

  And much I long to hear him preach,

  So Betty call a coach.’

  A bargain, tho’, she wish’d to make

  Ere they began to jog —

  ‘Now, coachman, what d’ye take me for? ‘

  Says coachman, ‘for a hog.’

  But Jarvis when he set her clown,

  A second hog did lack —

  Whereas she only offer’d him

  One shilling and ‘a track.’

  Said he—’ there an’t no tracks in Quaife,

  You and your tracks be both—’

  And, affidavit-like, he clench’d

  Her shilling with an oath.

  Said she—’ I’ll have you fined for this,

  And soon it shall be done,

  I’ll have you up at Worship Street,

  You wicked one, aught one!’

  And sure enough, at Worship Street

  That Friday week they stood,

  She said bad language he had used,

  And thus she ‘made it good.’

  ‘He said two shilling was his fare,

  And wouldn’t take no less —

  I said one shilling was enough —

  And he said C — U — S!

  ‘And when I raised my eyes at that,

  He swore again at them,

  I said he was a wicked man,

  And he said D — A — M.’ —

  Now Jarvy’s turn was come to speak,

  So he stroked down his hair,

  ‘All what she says is false — cause why?

  I’ll swear I never swear!

  ‘There’s old Joe Hatch, the waterman,

  Can tell you what I am,

  I’m one of seven children, all

  Brought up without a dam!

  ‘He’ll say from two year old and less

  Since ever I were nust,

  If ever I said C — U — S,

  I wish I may be cust!

  ‘At Sion Cottage I takes up,

  And raining all the while,

  To go to New Jerusalem,

  A wery long two mile.

  ‘Well, when I axes for my fare,

  She rows me in the street,

  And uses words as is not fit

  For coachmen to repeat! —

  ‘Says she, I know where you will go,

  You sinner! I know well —

  Your worship, it’s the P — I — T

  Of E and double L!’

  Now here his worship stopp’d the case —

  Said he—’ I fine you both!

  And of the two — why Mrs. Cope’s

  I think the biggest oath!’

  MISS FANNY’S FAREWELL FLOWERS

  Not ‘the posie of a ring.’ — Shakspeare (all but the not).

  I came to town a happy man,

  I need not now dissemble

  Why I return so sad at heart,

  It’s all through Fanny Kemble:

  Oh! when she threw her flow’rs away,

  What urged the tragic slut on

  To weave in such a wreath as that,

  Ah, me! a bachelor’s button.

  None fought so hard, none fought so well,

  As I to gain some token —

  When all the pit rose up in arms,

  And heads and hearts were broken;

  Huzza! said I, I’ll have a flower

  As sure as my name’s Dutton —

  I made a snatch — I got a catch —

  By Jove! a bachelor’s button!

  I’ve lost my watch — my hat is smash’d —

  My clothes declare the racket:

  I went there in a full dress coat,

  And came home in a jacket.

  My nose is swell’d, my eye is black,

  My lip I’ve got a cut on —

  Odds buds! — and what a bud to get —

  The deuce! — a bachelor’s button!

  My chest’s in pain; I really fear

  I’ve somewhat hurt my bellows,

  By pokes and punches in the ribs

  From those herb-strewing fellows.

  I miss two teeth in my front row;

  My corn has had a fut on; —

  And all this pain I’ve had to gain

  This cursed bachelor’s button.

  Had I but won a rose — a bud —

  A pansy, or a daisy —

  A periwinkle — anything —

  But this — it drives me crazy!

  My very sherry tastes like squills —

  I can’t enjoy my mutton;

  And when I sleep I dream of it —

  Still — still — a bachelor’s button!

  My place is book’d per coach to-night;

  But oh! my spirit trembles

  To think how country friends will ask

  Of Knowleses and of Kembles.

  If they should breathe about the wreath,

  When I go back to Sutton,

  I shall not dare to show my share —

  That all! — a bachelor’s button!

  My luck in life was never good,

  But this my fate will harden: —

  I ne’er shall like my farming more,

  I know I shan’t the Garden:

  The turnips all may have the fly,

  The wheat may have the smut on —

  I care not — I’ve a blight at heart —

  Ah me! — a bachelor’s button!

  THE CHINA-MENDER

  Good morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call! Well! here’s another pretty job!

  Lord help my Lady! — what a smash! — if you had only heard her sob!

  It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winy,

  To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiny.

  ‘Deuce take your stupid head!’ says my Lady to his very face;

  But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there’s Chiny in the case:

  And if ever a woman was fond of Chiny to a passion —

  It’s my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion.

  Her brother’s a sea-captain, and brings her home ship-loads —

  Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like toads;

  And great nidnoddin mandarins, with palsies in the head:

  I declare I’ve often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed.

  But the frightfuller they are — lawk! she loves them all the better:

  She’d have Old Nick himself made of Chiny if they’d let her.

  Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiny, and it’s breaking her very heart;

  If I touch’d it, she would very soon say, ‘Mary, we must part.’

  To be sure she is unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall,

  And breaks
a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle:

  He’s a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch,

  And that’s why my Lady doesn’t take to children much.

  Well! there’s stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two great coat flaps,

  Must go and sit down on the Dresden shepherdesses’ laps,

  As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room;

  I couldn’t have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom.

  Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear!

  Well! after all, there’s nothing like good ironstone ware for wear.

  If ever I marry, that’s flat, I’m sure it won’t be John Dockery,

  I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery.

  I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy,

  And afraid of mad bulls on market-days every Monday and Friday.

  I’m very much mistook if Mr. Lambert’s will be a catch;

  The breaking the Chiny will be the breaking off of his own match.

  Missis wouldn’t have an angel, if he was careless about Chiny;

  She never forgives a chip, if it’s ever so small and tiny.

  Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking;

  I could find in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making.

  To see him stand a-hammering and stammering, like a zany;

  But what signifies apologies, if they wont mend old Chaney!

  If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood’s and Mr. Spode’s,

  He couldn’t make amends for the crack’d mandarins and smash’d toads.

  Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my parts, my own self,

  I’d rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother’s old shelf:

  A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns,

  And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns,

  And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top-boots and sky-blue vest,

  And a frill and flowered waistcoat, with a fine bowpot at the breast.