Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

Meanwhile the very pipe, mayhap,

  Extinguish’d, like the vital spark in death,

  From wonder locking up the smoker’s breath!

  Didn’t they crouch like chickens, when the kite

  Hovers in sight,

  To see your vehicles of high dimension

  Aloft, like Gulliver’s Laputa — nay,

  I’d better say,

  The Island of Ascension?

  Well was it plann’d

  To come down thus into the German land,

  Where Honours you may score by such event,

  For, if I read the prophecy aright,

  You’ll have the Eagle-Order for your flight,

  And all be Von’d, because of your descent!

  THE BLUE BOAR

  ’Tis known to man, ’tis known to

  woman,’Tis known to all the world in common,

  How politics and party strife

  Vex public, even private, life;

  But, till some days ago, at least

  They never worried brutal beast.

  I wish you could have seen the creature,

  A tame domestic boar by nature,

  Gone wild as boar that ever grunted,

  By Baron Hoggerhausen hunted.

  His back was up, and on its ledge

  The bristles rose like quickset hedge

  His eye was fierce and red as coal,

  Like furnace, shining through a hole,

  And restless turn’d for mischief seeking;

  His very hide with rage was reeking;

  And oft he gnash’d his crooked tusks,

  Chewing his tongue instead of husks,

  Till all his jaw was white and yesty,

  Showing him savage, fierce and resty.

  And what had caused this mighty vapour? —

  A dirty fragment of a paper,

  That in his rambles he had found,

  Lying neglected on the ground;

  A relic of the Morning Post,

  Two tattered columns at the most,

  But which our irritated swine

  (Derived from learned Toby’s line)

  Digested easy as his meals,

  Like any quidnunc Cit at Peel’s.

  He read, and mused, and pored and read,

  His shoulders shrugg’d, and shook his head;

  Now at a line he gave a grunt,

  Now at a phrase took sudden stunt,

  And snorting turn’d his back upon it,

  But always came again to con it;

  In short he petted up his passion,

  After a very human fashion,

  When Temper’s worried with a bone.

  She’ll neither like nor let alone,

  At last his fury reach’d the pitch

  Of that most irritating itch,

  When mind and will, in fever’d faction,

  Prompt blood and body into action;

  No matter what, so bone and muscle

  May vent the frenzy in a bustle;

  But whether by a fight or dance

  Is left to impulse and to chance.

  So stood the Boar, in furious mood

  Made up for any thing but good;

  He gave his tail a tighter twist,

  As men in anger clench the fist,

  And threw fresh sparkles in his eye

  From the volcano in his fry —

  Ready to raze the parish pound,

  To pull the pigsty to the ground,

  To lay Squire Giles, his master, level,

  Ready, indeed, to play the devil.

  So, stirr’d by raving demagogues,

  I’ve seen men rush, like rabid dogs,

  Stark staring from the Pig and Whistle,

  And like his Boarship, in a bristle,

  Resolved unanimous on rumpus

  From any quarter of the compass;

  But whether to duck Aldgate Pump,

  (For wits in madness never jump)

  To liberate the beasts from Cross’s;

  Or hiss at all the Wigs in Ross’s;

  On Waithman’s column hang a weeper;

  Or tar and feather the old sweeper;

  Or break the panes of landlord scurvy,

  And turn the King’s Head topsyturvy,

  Rebuild, or pull down, London Wall.

  Or take his cross from old Saint Paul.

  Or burn those wooden Highland fellows,

  The snuff-men’s idols, ‘neath the gallows!

  None fix’d or cared — but all were loyal

  To one design — a battle royal.

  Thus stood the Boar, athirst for blood,

  Trampling the Morning Post to mud,

  With tusks prepared to run a muck; —

  And sorrow for the mortal’s luck

  That came across him Whig or Tory,

  It would have been a tragic story —

  But fortune interposing now,

  Brought Bessy into play — a Sow; —

  A fat, sleek, philosophic beast,

  That never fretted in the least,

  Whether her grains were sour or sweet,

  For grains are grains, and she could eat.

  Absorb’d in two great schemes capacious,

  The farrow, and the farinaceous,

  If cares she had, they could not stay,

  She drank, and wash’d them all away.

  In fact this philosophic sow

  Was very like a German frow;

  In brief — as wit should be and fun —

  If sows turn Quakers, she was one;

  Clad from the duckpond, thick and slab,

  In bran-new muddy suit of drab.

  To still the storm of such a lubber,

  She came like oil — at least like blubber —

  Her pigtail of as passive shape

  As ever droop’d o’er powder’d nape;

  Her snout, scarce turning up — her deep

  Small eyes half settled into sleep;

  Her ample ears, dependent, meek,

  Like fig-leaves shading either cheek;

  Whilst, from the corner of her jaw,

  A sprout of cabbage, green and raw,

  Protruded, as the Dove, so stanch

  For Peace, supports an olivebranch,

  Her very grunt, so low and mild,

  Like the soft snoring of a child,

  Inquiring into his disquiets,

  Served like the Riot Act, at riots,

  He laid his restive bristles flatter,

  And took to arguefy the matter.

  ‘O Bess, O Bess, here’s heavy news!

  They mean to ‘mancipate the Jews!

  Just as they turn’d the blacks to whites,

  They want to give them equal rights,

  And, in the twinkling of a steeple,

  Make Hebrews quite like other people.

  Here, read — but I forget your fetters,

  You’ve studied litters more than letters.’

  ‘Well,’ quoth the Sow,’ and no great miss,

  I’m sure my ignorance is bliss;

  Contentedly I bite and sup,

  And never let my flare flare-up;

  Whilst you get wild and fuming hot —

  What matters Jews be Jews or not?

  Whether they go with beards like Moses,

  Or barbers take them by the noses,

  Whether they live, permitted dwellers,

  In Cheapside shops, or Rag Fair cellars,

  Or climb their way to civic perches,

  Or go to synagogues or churches?’

  ‘Churches! — ay, there the question grapples,

  No, Bess, the Jews will go to Chappell’s!’ —

  ‘To chapel — well — what’s that to you?

  A Berkshire Boar, and not a Jew?

  We pigs, remember the remark

  Of our old drover Samuel Slark,

  When trying, but he tried in vain,

  To coax me into Sermon Lane,

  Or Paternoster’s pious Row,


  But still I stood and grunted No!

  Of Lane of Creed an equal scorner,

  Till bolting off, at Amen Corner,

  He cried, provoked at my evasion

  “Pigs, blow ‘em! ar’n’t of no persuasion!”’

  ‘The more’s the pity, Bess, the more—’

  Said, with sardonic grin, the Boar;

  ‘If Pigs were Methodists and Bunyans,

  They’d make a sin of sage and onions;

  The curse of endless flames endorse

  On every boat of apple-sauce;

  Give brine to Satan, and assess

  Black puddings with bloodguiltiness;

  Yea, call down heavenly fire and smoke —

  To burn all Epping into coke!’

  ‘Ay,’ cried the sow, extremely placid,

  In utter contrast to his acid,

  ‘Ay, that would be a Sect indeed!

  And every swine would like the creed,

  The sausage-making curse and all;

  And should some brother have a call,

  To thump a cushion to that measure,

  I would sit under him with pleasure: —

  Nay, put down half my private fortune

  T’ endow a chapel at Hog’s Norton. —

  But what has this to do, my deary,

  With their new Hebrew whigmaleery?’

  ‘Sow that you are! this Bill, if current,

  Would be as good as our deathwarrant; —

  And, with its legislative friskings,

  Loose twelve new tribes upon our griskins!

  Unjew the Jews, what follows then?

  Why, they’ll eat pork like other men,

  And you shall see a Rabbi dish up

  A chine as freely as a Bishop!

  Thousands of years have pass’d, and pork

  Was never stuck on Hebrew fork;

  But now, suppose that relish rare

  Fresh added to their bill of fare,

  Fry, harslet, pettitoes, and chine,

  Leg, choppers, bacon, ham, and loin,

  And then, beyond all goose or duckling’ —

  ‘Yes, yes — a little tender suckling!

  It must be held the aptest savour

  To make the eager mouth to slaver!

  Merely to look on such a gruntling,

  A plump, white, sleek and sappy runtling,

  It makes one — ah! remembrance bitter!

  It made me eat my own dear litter!’

  ‘Think, then, with this new waken’d fury,

  How we should fare if tried by Jewry!

  A pest upon the meddling Whigs!

  There’ll be a pretty run on pigs!

  This very morn a Hebrew brother,

  With three hats stuck on one another,

  And o’er his arm a bag, or poke,

  A thing pigs never find a joke,

  Stopp’d, rip the fellow! — though he knew

  I’ve neither coat to sell nor shoe,

  And cock’d his nose — right at me, lovey!

  Just like a pointer at a covey!

  To set our only friends agin us!

  That neither care to fat nor thin us!

  To boil, to broil, to roast, to fry us,

  But act like real Christians by us! —

  A murrain on all legislators!

  Thin wash, sour grains, and rotten ‘taters!

  A bull dog at their ears and tails!

  The curse of empty troughs and pails

  Famish their flanks as thin as weasels!

  May all their children have the measles;

  Or in the straw untimely smother,

  Or make a dinner for the mother!

  A cartwhip for all law inventors!

  And rubbing-posts stuck full of tenters!

  Yokes, rusty rings, and gates, to hitch in,

  And parish pounds to pine the flitch in,

  Cold, and high winds, the Devil send ‘em —

  And then may Sam the Sticker end ‘em!’

  ’Twas strange to hear him how he swore!

  A Boar will curse, though like a boar,

  While Bess, like Pity, at his side

  Her swine-subduing voice supplied!

  She bade him such a rage discard;

  That anger is a foe to lard;

  ’Tis bad for sugar to get wet,

  And quite as bad for fat to fret;

  ‘Besides,’ — she argued thus at last —

  ‘The Bill you fume at has not pass’d,

  For why, the Commons and the Peers

  Have come together by the ears:

  Or rather, as we pigs repose,

  One’s tail beside the other’s nose,

  And thus, of course, take adverse views

  Whether of Gentiles or of Jews.

  Who knows? They say the Lords’ ill-will

  Has thrown out many a wholesome Bill,

  And p’rhaps some Peer to Pigs propitious

  May swamp a measure so Jew-dishus: ‘

  The Boar was conquer’d: at a glance,

  He saw there really was a chance —

  That as the Hebrew nose is hooked,

  The Bill was equally as crooked; And might outlast, thank party embers,

  A dozen tribes of Christian members; —

  So down he settled in the mud,

  With smoother back, and cooler blood,

  As mild, as quiet, a Blue Boar,

  As any over tavern door.

  MORAL

  The chance is small that any measure

  Will give all classes equal pleasure;

  Since Tory ministers or Whigs,

  Sometimes can’t even ‘please the

  Pigs.’

  ODE TO DOCTOR HAHNEMANN

  THE HOMOEOPATHIST

  Well, Doctor,

  Great concoctor

  Of medicines to help in man’s distress;

  Diluting down the strong to meek,

  And making ev’n the weak more weak,

  ‘Fine by degrees and beautifully less’ —

  Founder of a new system economic,

  To druggists anything but comic;

  Fram’d the whole race of Ollapods to fret,

  At profits, like thy doses, very small; —

  To put all Doctors’ Boys in evil case,

  Thrown out of bread, of physic, and of place,

  And show us old Apothecaries’ Hall ‘To Let.’

  How fare thy Patients? are they dead or living,

  Or, well as can expected be, with such

  A style of practice, liberally giving

  ‘A sum of more to that which had too much?’

  Dost thou preserve the human frame, or turf it?

  Do thorough draughts cure thorough colds or not? —

  Do fevers yield to any thing that’s hot?

  Or hearty dinners neutralise a surfeit?

  Is’t good advice for gastronomic ills,

  When Indigestion’s face with pain is crumpling,

  To cry ‘Discard those Peristaltic Pills,

  Take a hard dumpling!’

  Tell me, thou German Cousin,

  And tell me honestly without a diddle,

  Does an attenuated dose of rosin

  Act as a tonic on the old Scotch fiddle?

  Tell me, when Anhalt-Coëthen babies wriggle,

  Like eels just caught by sniggle,

  Martyrs to some acidity internal,

  That gives them pangs infernal,

  Meanwhile the lip grows black, the eye enlarges,

  Say, comes there all at once a cherub-calm,

  Thanks to that soothing homoeopathic balm,

  The half of half, of half, a drop of ‘varges’?

  Suppose, for instance, upon Leipzig’s plain,

  A soldier pillow’d on a heap of slain,

  In urgent want both of a priest and proctor;

  When lo! there comes a man in green and red,

  A featherless cock’d-hat adorns his head,

 
; In short a Saxon military doctor —

  Would he, indeed, on the right treatment fix,

  To cure a horrid gaping wound,

  Made by a ball that weigh’d a pound,

  If he well pepper’d it with number six?

  Suppose a felon doomed to swing

  Within a rope,

  Might friends not hope

  To cure him with a string?

  Suppose his breath arriv’d at a full stop,

  The shades of death in a black cloud before him,

  Would a quintillionth dose of the New Drop Restore him?

  Fancy a man gone rabid from a bite,

  Snapping to left and right,

  And giving tongue like one of Sebright’s hounds,

  Terrific sounds,

  The pallid neighbourhood with horror cowing,

  To hit the proper homoeopathic mark;

  Now, might not ‘the laste taste in life’ of bark,

  Stop his bow-wow-ing? —

  Nay, with a well-known remedy to fit him,

  Would he not mend, if with all proper care,

  He took ‘a hair

  Of the dog that bit him’?

  Picture a man — we’ll say a Dutch Meinheer —

  In evident emotion,

  Bent o’er the bulwark of the Batavier,

  Owning those symptoms queer —

  Some feel in a Sick Transit o’er the ocean,

  Can any thing in life be more pathetic

  Than when he turns to us his wretched face? —

  But would it mend his case

  To be decillionth-dos’d

  With something like the ghost

  Of an emetic?

  Lo! now a, darken’d room!

  Look through the dreary gloom,

  And see that coverlet of wildest form,

  Tost like the billows in a storm,

  Where ever and anon, with groans, emerges

  A ghastly head! —

  While two impatient arms still beat the bed,

  Like a strong swimmer’s struggling with the surges

  There Life and Death are on their battle-plain,

  With many a mortal ecstasy of pain —

  What shall support the body in its trial,

  Cool the hot blood, wild dream, and parching skin

  And tame the raging Malady within —

  A sniff of Next-to-Nothing in a phial?

  Oh! Doctor Hahnemann, if here I laugh,

  And cry together, half and half,

  Excuse me, ’tis a mood the subject brings,