Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  Then ask’d— ’twas Christmas—’ Had he eaten grass,

  Or greens — and if the cook was so improper

  To boil them up with copper,

  Or farthings made of brass;

  Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass,

  Or dined at City Festivals, whereat

  There’s turtle, and green fat?’

  To all of which, with serions tone of woe,

  Poor Simpson answered ‘No.’

  Indeed he might have said in form auricular,

  Supposing Puddicombe had been a monk —

  He had not eaten (he had only drunk)

  Of any thing ‘Particular.’

  The Doctor was at fault;

  A thing so new quite brought him to a halt.

  Cases of other colours came in crowds,

  He could have found their remedy, and soon; —

  But green — it sent him up among the clouds,

  As if he had gone up with Green’s balloon!

  Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin;

  From Yellow Jaundice yellow.

  From saffron tints to sallow; —

  Then retrospective memory lugg’d in

  Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town-

  East Indians, without number,

  He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown,

  From tan to a burnt umber,

  Ev’n those eruptions he had never seen

  Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke,

  As ‘rashes growing green’ —

  ‘Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green!

  Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke!

  Then as to flaming visages, for those

  The Scarlet Fever answer’d, or the Rose —

  But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke!

  Men turn’d to blue, by Cholera’s last stage,

  In common practice he had really seen;

  But Green — he was too old, and grave, and sage,

  To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!

  So matters stood in-doors — meanwhile without,

  Growing in going like all other rumours,

  The modern miracle was buzz’d about,

  By people of all humours.

  Native or foreign in their dialecticals;

  Till all the neighbourhood, as if their noses

  Had taken the odd gross from little Moses,

  Seem’d looking thro’ green spectacles.

  ‘Green faces!’ so they all began to comment-

  ‘Yes — opposite to Druggists’ lighted shops,

  But that’s a flying colour — never stops —

  A bottle-green that’s vanish’d in a moment.

  Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind,

  Nothing at all to match the present piece;

  Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind —

  Green-grocers are not green — nor yet green geese!’

  The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors

  Of such a case had never heard,

  From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd;

  ‘Or Greenland!’ cried the whalers.

  All tongues were full of the Green Man, and still

  They could not make him out, with all their skill,

  No soul could shape the matter, head or tail —

  But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail.

  A long half hour, in needless puzzle,

  Our Galen’s cane had rubbed against his muzzle;

  He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought —

  And still it came to nought,

  When up rush’d Betty, loudest of Town Criers,

  ‘Lord, Ma’am, the new Police is at the door!

  It’s B, ma’am, Twenty-four,

  As brought home Mister S. to Austin Friars,

  And says there’s nothing but a simple case —

  He got that ‘ere green face

  By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer’s!’

  POMPEY’S GHOST

  A PATHETIC BALLAD

  ‘Skins may differ, but affection

  Dwells in white and black the same.’ —

  Cowper.

  ’Twas twelve o’clock, not twelve at night,

  But twelve o’clock at noon;

  Because the sun was shining bright,

  And not the silver moon.

  A proper time for friends to call,

  Or Pots, or Penny Post;

  When, lo! as Phoebe sat at work,

  She saw her Pompey’s Ghost!

  Now when a female has a call

  From people, that are dead; —

  Like Paris ladies, she receives

  Her visitors in bed.

  But Pompey’s Spirit could not come

  Like spirits that are white,

  Because he was a Blackamoor,

  And wouldn’t show at night!

  But of all unexpected things

  That happen to us here,

  The most unpleasant is a rise

  In what is very dear.

  So Phoebe screamed an awful scream,

  To prove the seaman’s text:

  That after black appearances,

  White squalls will follow next.

  ‘Oh, Phoebe, dear! oh, Phoebe, dear!

  Don’t go to scream or faint;

  You think because I’m black I am

  The Devil, but I ain’t!

  Behind the heels of Lady Lambe

  I walked whilst I had breath; —

  But that is past, and I am now

  A-walking after Death!

  ‘No, murder, though, I come to tell

  By base and bloody crime;

  So Phoebe, dear, put off your fits

  Till some more fitting time:

  No Crowner, like a boatswain’s mate,

  My body need attack,

  With his round dozen to find out

  Why I have died so black.

  ‘One Sunday, shortly after tea,

  My skin began to burn

  As if I had in my inside

  A heater, like the urn.

  Delirious in the night I grew,

  And as I lay in bed,

  They say I gather’d all the wool

  You see upon my head.

  ‘His Lordship for his doctor sent,

  My treatment to begin —

  I wish that he had call’d him out,

  Before he call’d him in!

  For though to physic he was bred,

  And pass’d at Surgeons’ Hall,

  To make his post a sinecure,

  He never cured at all!

  ‘The Doctor look’d about my breast,

  And then about my back,

  And then he shook his head and said,

  “Your case looks very black.”

  And first he sent me hot cayenne,

  And then gamboge to swallow,

  But still my Fever would not turn

  To Scarlet or to Yellow!

  ‘With madder and with turmeric

  He made his next attack;

  But neither he nor all his drugs

  Could stop my dying black.

  At last I got so sick of life,

  And sick of being dosed,

  One Monday morning I gave up

  My physic and the ghost!

  ‘Oh, Phoebe, dear, what pain it was

  To sever every tie!

  You know black beetles feel as much

  As giants when they die —

  And if there is a bridal bed,

  Or bride of little worth,

  It’s lying in a bed of mould,

  Along with Mother Earth. —

  ‘Alas; some happy, happy day,

  In church I hoped to stand,

  And like a muff of sable skin

  Receive your lily hand;

  But sternly with that piebald match

  My fate untimely clashes —

  For now, like Pompe-double-i,


  I’m sleeping in my ashes!

  ‘And now farewell! a last farewell!

  I’m wanted down below,

  And have but time enough to add

  One word before I go —

  In mourning crape and bombazine

  Ne’er spend your precious pelf —

  Don’t go in black for me, for I

  Can do it for myself.

  ‘Henceforth within my grave I rest,

  But Death, who there inherits,

  Allowed my spirit leave to come,

  You seemed so out of spirits: —

  But do not sigh, and do not cry,

  By grief too much engross’d,

  Nor, for a ghost of colour, turn

  The colour of a ghost!

  ‘Again farewell, my Phoebe dear!

  Once more a last adieu!

  For I must make myself as scarce

  As swans of sable hue.’

  From black to gray, from gray to nought,

  The Shape began to fade,

  And, like an egg, though not so white,

  The Ghost was newly laid!

  AN OPEN QUESTION

  ‘It is the king’s highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions,’ — Bunyan.

  What! shut the Gardens! lock the lattic’d gate!

  Refuse the shilling and the Fellow’s ticket!

  And hang a wooden notice up to state,

  ‘On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!’

  The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race

  Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!

  Now, really, this appears the common case

  Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  The Gardens, so unlike the ones we dub

  Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses,

  Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub,

  Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?

  No ale is vended at the wild Deer’s Head,

  Nor rum — nor gin — not even of a Monday —

  The Lion is not carv’d — or gilt — or red,

  And does not send out porter of a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  The Bear denied! the Leopard under locks!

  As if his spots would give contagious fevers,

  The Beaver close as hat within its box,

  So different from other Sunday beavers!

  The Birds invisible — the Gnaw-way Rats —

  The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday —

  The Monkey tribe — the Family of Cats,

  We visit other families on Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  What is the brute profanity that shocks

  The super-sensitively-serious feeling?

  The Kangaroo — is he not orthodox

  To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?

  Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat,

  Struck all a heap to see a Coati Mundi?

  Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note

  The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  What feature has repulsed the serious set?

  What error in the bestial birth or breeding,

  To put their tender fancies on the fret — ?

  One thing is plain — it is not in the feeding!

  Some stiffish people think that smoking joints

  Are carnal sins ‘twixt Saturday and Monday —

  But then the beasts are pious on these points,

  For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  What change comes o’er the spirit of the place,

  As if transmuted by some spell organic?

  Turns fell Hyaena of the Ghoulish race?

  The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?

  Do Irish minds, (whose theory allows

  That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday) —

  Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows

  Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  There are some moody Fellows, not a few,

  Who, turn’d by Nature with a gloomy bias,

  Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,

  And think when they are dismal they are pious —

  Is’t possible that Pug’s untimely fun

  Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday —

  Or p’rhaps some animal, no serious one,

  Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  What dire offence have serious fellows found

  To raise their spleen against the Regent’s spinney?

  Were charitable boxes handed round,

  And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?

  Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult

  The feathers in her head — at least till Monday;

  Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt

  A tract presented to be read on Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

  Who mourns thro’ Monkey tricks his damag’d clothing

  Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?’

  On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?

  Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell

  To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,

  Because he prey’d extempore as well

  As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  To me it seems, that in the oddest way

  (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)

  Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day

  Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious —

  As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk

  About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,

  As any harmless Man to take a walk,

  If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,

  As surely as I am a Christian scion,

  I cannot think it is a mortal sin —

  (Unless he’s loose) to look upon a lion.

  I really think that one may go, perchance,

  To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday —

  (That is, provided that he did not dance)

  Bruin’s no worse than bakin’ on a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

  I cannot think the day a bit diviner,

  Because no children, with forestalling smiles,

  Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor —

  It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,

  That what we christen ‘Natural’ on Monday,

  The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,

  Can be Unnatural because it’s Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  Whereon is sinful phantasy to work?

  The Dove, the wing’d Columbus of Man’s haven?

  The tender Love-bird — or the filial Stork?

  The punctual Crane — the providential Raven?

  The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?

  Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday

  That feather’d marvel with a human tongue,

  Because she does not preach upon a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  The busy Beaver — that sagacious beast!

  The Sheep that own’d an Oriental Shepherd —

  That Desert-ship the Camel of the East,

  The horned Rhinoceros — the spotted Leopard —

  The creatures of the Great Creator’s hand
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br />   Are surely sights for better days than Monday —

  The Elephant, although he wears no band,

  Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,

  Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature,

  Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil,

  And snatch a glimpse of ‘Animated Nature’?

  Better it were, if, in his best of suits,

  The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,

  Should spend a leisure hour amongst the brutes,

  Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss

  (Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)

  But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus

  Had somehow mixed up Dens with their theology?

  Is Brahma’s Bull — a Hindoo god at home —

  A papal Bull to be tied up till Monday —

  Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,

  That there is such a dread of them on Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

  To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,

  But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,

  As vessels cant their ballast — rattling rubbish!

  Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,

  Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,

  And sure as fate they will deny us next

  To see the Dandelions on a Sunday —

  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

  MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.

  A GOLDEN LEGEND.

  “What is here?

  Gold! yellow, glittering, precious gold?”

  Timon of Athens.

  HER PEDIGREE.

  I.

  To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree

  To the very root of the family tree

  Were a task as rash as ridiculous:

  Through antediluvian mists as thick

  As London fog such a line to pick

  Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,

  Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.