by Thomas Hood
‘Our Crummie is a dainty cow ‘ — Scotch Song.
On that first Saturday in May,
When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R.A.
Has done since last they sought the Strand,
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what’s call’d the private view, —
Amongst the guests — the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row —
There came a large and vulgar dame
With arms deep red, and face the same, —
Showing in temper not a Saint;
No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to ‘scour the Paint.’
From wall to wall she forc’d her way.
Elbow’d Lord Durham — pok’d Lord Grey —
Stamp’d Stafford’s toes to make him move,
And Devonshire’s Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honour, budge,
And gave a pinch to Park the Judge.
As for the ladies, in this stir, —
The highest rank gave way to her.
From number one and number two,
She search’d the pictures through and through,
On benches stood to inspect the high ones.
And squatted down to scan the shy ones;
And as she went from part to part,
A deeper red each cheek became,
Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
‘Really an ardent love of art!’
Alas, amidst her inquisition,
Fate brought her to a sad condition;
She might have run against Lord Milton,
And still have stared at deeds in oil,
But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,
She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.
The Keeper mute, with staring eyes
Like a lay-figure for surprise,
At last thus stammered out, ‘How now? —
Woman — where, woman, is your ticket,
That ought to let you through our wicket?’
Sayswoman,’ Where is David’s Cow?’
Said Mr. H —— , with expedition,
‘There’s no Cow in the Exhibition.’
‘No Cow!’ — but here her tongue in verity
Set off with steam and rail celerity —
‘No Cow! there an’t no Cow, then the more’s the shame and pity,
Hang you and the R.A.’s, and all the Hanging Committee!
No Cow — but hold your tongue, for you needn’t talk to me
You can’t talk up the Cow, you can’t, to where it ought to be —
I haven’t seen a picture high or low, or any how,
Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David’s Cow!
You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers, and your Wards,
Why hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords!
They’re only fit for window frames, and shutters, and street-doors,
David will paint ‘em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars, —
Why Morland was a fool to him, at a little pig or sow —
It’s really hard it an’t hung up — I could cry about the Cow!
But I know well what it is, and why — they’re jealous of David’s fame,
But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame.
Do you think it might hang bye and bye, if you cannot hang it now?
David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow.
If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners,
Why can’t it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner’s?
Or do you think from Mr. Etty, you need apprehend a row,
If now and then you cut him down to hang up David’s Cow?
I can’t think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature,
Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than Nature;
It must be hung — and shall be hung, for, Mr. H —— — , I vow, —
I daren’t take home the catalogue, unless it’s got the Cow!
As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care,
If it was only round the stone man’s neck, a-coming up the stair.
Or down there in the marble room, where all the figures stand,
Where one of them Three Graces might just hold it in her hand —
Or may be Bailey’s Charity the favour would allow,
It would really be a charity to haug up David’s Cow.
We haven’t nowhere else to go if you don’t hang it here,
The Water-Colour place allows no oilman to appear —
And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers, and Gerrard Douw,
And the Suffolk Gallery will not do — it’s not a Suffolk Cow:
I wish you’d seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals
Till she was painted on the board correct from head to heels;
His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby,
He hardly whipp’d the boys at all, or help’d to nurse the babby.
And when he had her all complete and painted over red,
He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.
Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it any how:
Poor David, he will hang himself unless you hang his Cow. —
And if it’s unconvenient and drawn too big by half —
David shan’t send next year except a very little calf.’
I’M GOING TO BOMBAY
‘Nothing venture, nothing have.’ Old Proverb.
‘Every Indiaman has at least two mates.’ — Falconer’s Marine Guide.
I
My hair is brown, my eyes are blue,
And reckon’d rather bright;
I’m shapely, if they tell me true,
And just the proper height;
My skin has been admired in verse,
And call’d as fair as day —
If I am fair, so much the worse,
I’m going to Bombay!
II
At school I passed with some éclat
I learn’d my French in France;
De Wint gave lessons how to draw,
And D’Egville how to dance; —
Crevelli taught me how to sing,
And Cramer how to play —
It really is the strangest thing —
I’m going to Bombay!
III
I’ve been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells,
But not their springs to sip —
To Ramsgate — not to pick up shells, —
To Brighton — not to dip.
I’ve tour’d the Lakes, and scour’d the coast
From Scarboro’ to Torquay —
But tho’ of time I’ve made the most,
I’m going to Bombay!
IV
By Pa and Ma I’m daily told
To marry now’s my time,
For though I’m very far from old,
I’m rather in my prime.
They say while we have any sun We ought to make our hay
And India has so hot an one,
I’m going to Bombay!
V
My cousin writes from Hyderapot
My only chance to snatch,
And says the climate is so hot,
It’s sure to light a match. —
She’s married to a son of Mars,
With very handsome pay,
And swears I ought to thank my stars
I’m going to Bombay! —
VI
She says that I shall much delight
To taste their Indian treats,
But what she likes may turn me quite,
Their strange outlandish meats. —
If I can eat rupees, who kn
ows?
Or dine, the Indian way,
On doolies and on bungalows —
I’m going to Bombay!
VII
She says that I shall much enjoy, —
I don’t know what she means,
To take the air arid buy some toy,
In my own palankeens, —
I like to drive my pony-chair,
Or ride our dapple grey —
But elephants are horses there —
I’m going to Bombay!
VIII
Farewell, farewell, my pareuts dear,
My friends, farewell to them!
And oh, what costs a sadder tear,
Good-bye, to Mr. M.!
If I should find an Indian vault,
Or fall a tiger’s prey,
Or steep in salt, it’s all his fault,
I’m going to Bombay!
IX
That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox,
A.I. — Commander Bird,
Now lying in the London docks,
Will sail on May the Third;
Apply for passage or for freight,
To Nichol, Scott, and Gray
Pa has applied and seal’d my fate —
I’m going to Bombay
X
My heart is full — my trunks as well;
My mind and caps made up,
My corsets, shap’d by Mrs. Bell,
Are promised ere I sup;
With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best,
And dresses by Ducé,
And a special licence in my chest —
I’m going to Bombay! —
ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET
‘Sweeping our flocks and herds.’ — Douglas.
O philanthropic men!
For this address I need not make apology —
Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen,
And planting further off its vile Zoology —
Permit me thus to tell,
I like your efforts well,
For routing that great nest of Hornithology!
Be not dismay’d, although repulsed at first,
And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts,
Charge on! — you shall upon their hornworks burst, —
And carry all their Bull-warks and their Ram-parts.
Go on, ye wholesale drovers!
And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds!
As wild as Tartar-Curds,
That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers,
Off with them all! — those restive brutes, that vex
Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle;
And save the female sex
From being cow’d — like Io — by the cattle!
Fancy — when droves appear on —
The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top, —
Your ladies — ready, as they own, to drop,
Taking themselves to Thomson’s with a Fear-on!
Or, in St. Martin’s Lane,
Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein, —
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,
While rushing souse
Into a coffee-house,
To find it — Slaughter’s!
Or fancy this:
Walking along the street, some stranger Miss,
Her head with no such thought of danger laden,
When suddenly ’tis ‘Aries Taurus Virgo I’ —
You don’t know Latin, I translate it ergo,
Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!
Think of some poor old crone
Treated, just like a penny, with a toss!
At that vile spot now grown
So generally known
For making a Cow Cross! —
Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall,
Or shed, or shop — and that an Ox infuriate
Just pins you to the wall,
Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate!
Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round
The Market-ground
Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows —
’Tis well for you that live apart — unable
To hear this brutal Babel,
But our firesides are troubled with their bellows.
‘Folks that too freely sup
Must e’en put up
With their own troubles if they can’t digest;
But we must needs regard
The case as hard
That others’ victuals should disturb our rest,
That from our sleep your food should start and jump us!
We like, ourselves, a steak,
But, Sirs, for pity’s, sake!
We don’t want oxen at our doors to rump-us
‘If we do doze — it really is too bad!
We constantly are roar’d awake or rung,
Through bullocks mad
That run in all the ‘Night Thoughts’ of our Young!’
Such are the woes of sleepers — now let’s take
The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake! —
Oh think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts,
Think of these ‘Bulls of Basan,’ far from mild ones;
Such fierce tame beasts, —
That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones! —
Think of the Show woman,’ what shows a Dwarf,’
Seeing a red Cow come
To swallow her Tom Thumb,
And forc’d with broom of bitch to keep her off!
Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,
When looking at their public private boxes,
To see in the back row
Three live sheeps’ heads, a porker’s, and an Ox’s!
Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come
Through, to accompany the double drum! —
Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,
Just when the Ghost is certain,
A great rent in the curtain,
And enter two tall skeletons — of Horses!
Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics
Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation,
Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon,
The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!
Let the old Fair have fair-play as its right,
And to each show and sight —
Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;
To Richardson’s Stage Dramas,
Dio — and Cosmo — ramas,
Giants and Indians wild,
Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child,
And that most rare of Shows — a Show of Gratitude!
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S EVE
‘Look out for squalls.’ — The Pilot.
O come, dear Barney Isaacs, come,
Punch for one night can spare his drum
As well as pipes of Pan!
Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon,
Nor, Mister Bray, your horn, as soon
As you can leave the Van;
Blind Billy, bring your violin;
Miss Crow, you ‘re great in Cherry Ripe!
And Chubb, your viol must drop in
Its bass to Soger Tommy’s pipe.
Ye butchers, bring your bones:
An organ would not be amiss;
If grinding Jim has spouted his,
Lend yours, good Mister Jones.
Do, hurdy-gurdy Jenny, — do
Keep sober for an hour or two,
Music’s charms to help to paint.
And, Sandy Gray, if you should not
Your bagpipes bring — O tuneful Scot!
Conceive the feelings of the Saint!
Miss Strummel issues an invite,
For music, and turn-out to-night
In honour of Cecilia’s session;
But ere you go, one moment stop,
And with all kindness let me drop
A hint t
o you, and your profession;
Imprimis then: Pray keep within
The bounds to which your skill was born;
Let the one-handed let alone Trombone,
Don’t — Rheumatiz! seize the violin,
Or Ashmy snatch the horn!
Don’t ever to such rows give birth,
As if you had no end on earth,
Except to ‘wake the lyre;’
Don’t ‘strike the harp,’ pray never do,
Till others long to strike it too,
Perpetual harping’s apt to tire;
Oh, I have heard such flat-and-sharpers.
I’ve blest the head —
Of good King Ned,
For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers.
Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing,
Take a prodigious deal of wooing;
And then sit down to thrum the strain,
As if you’d never rise again —
The least Cecilia-like of things;
Remember that the Saint has wings.
I’ve known Miss Strummel pause an hour,
Ere she could ‘Pluck the Fairest Flower.’ —
Yet without hesitation, she
Plunged next into the ‘Deep Deep Sea,’
And when on the keys she does begin,
Such awful torments soon you share,
She really seems like Milton’s ‘Sin,’
Holding the keys of — you know where!
Never tweak people’s ears so toughly,
That urchin-like they can’t help saying —
‘O dear! O dear — you call this playing,
But oh, it’s playing very roughly!’
Oft, in the ecstasy of pain,
I’ve cursed all instrumental workmen,
Wish’d Broad wood Thurtell’d in a lane,
And Kirke White’s fate to every Kirkman —
I really once delighted spied
‘Clementi Collard’ in Cheapside.
Another word, — don’t be surpris’d,
Revered and ragged street Musicians,
You have been only half-baptis’d,
And each name proper, or improper,
Is not the value of a copper,
Till it has had the due additions, Husky, Rusky,
