by Thomas Hood
‘A tailor would not do because—’
They paused and glanced upon his paws.
Some parish post, — though fate should place it
Before him, how could he embrace it?
In short, each anxious Kangaroo
Discuss’d the matter through and through; —
By day they seem’d to get no nearer,
’Twas posing quite —
And in the night
Of course they saw their way no clearer!
At last thus musing on their knees —
Or hinder elbows if you please —
It came — no thought was ever brighter!
In weighing every why and whether,
They jump’d upon it both together —
‘Let’s make the imp a short-hand writer!’
MORAL.
I wish all human parents so
Would argue what their sons are fit for;
Some would-be critics that I know
Would be in trades they have more wit for.
ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!
I mean of course that venerable town,
Mention’d in stories of renown,
Built formerly of mud; —
O Lud, I say, why didst thou e’er
Invent the office of a Mayor,
An office that no useful purpose crowns,
But to set Aldermen against each other,
That should be Brother unto Brother,
Sisters at least, by virtue of their gowns? —
But still if one must have a Mayor
To fill the Civic Chair,
O Lud, I say,
Was there no better day
To fix on, than November Ninth so shivery
And dull for showing off the Livery’s livery?
Dimming, alas!
The Brazier’s brass,
Soiling th’ Embroiderers and all the Saddlers,
Sopping the Furriers,
Draggling the Curriers,
And making Merchant Tailors dirty paddlers;
Drenching the Skinners’ Company to the skin,
Making the crusty Vintner chiller,
And turning the Distiller
To cold without instead of warm within; —
Spoiling the bran-new beavers
Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers,
Plastering the Plasterers and spotting Mercers,
Hearty November-cursers
And showing Cordwainers and dapper Drapers
Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers;
Making the Grocers’ Company not fit
For company a bit;
Dyeing the Dyers with a dingy flood,
Daubing incorporated Bakers,
And leading the Patten-makers
Over their very pattens in the mud, —
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!
‘This is a sorry sight,’ —
To quote Macbeth — but oh, it grieves me quite,
To see your wives and Daughters in their plumes —
White plumes not white —
Sitting at open windows catching rheums,
Not ‘Angels ever bright and fair,’
But angels ever brown and sallow,
With eyes — you cannot see above one pair,
For city clouds of black and yellow —
And artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud,
Such sable lilies
And grim daffodillies,
Drooping, but not for drought, O Lud! O Lud!
I may as well, while I’m inclined,
Just go through all the faults I find:
O Lud! then, with a better air, say June,
Could’st thou not find a better tune
To sound with trumpets, and with drums,
Than ‘See the Conquering Hero comes,’
When he who comes ne’er dealt in blood?
Thy May’r is not a War Horse, Lud, —
That ever charged on Turk or Tartar,
And yet upon a march you strike
That treats him like —
A little French if I may martyr —
Lewis Cart-Horse or Henry Carter!
O Lud! I say
Do change your day
To some time when your Show can really show;
When silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow.
Look at your Sweepers, how they shine in May! —
Have it when there’s a sun to gild the coach,
And sparkle in tiara — bracelet — brooch —
Diamond — or paste — of sister, mother, daughter;
When grandeur really may be grand —
But if thy pageant’s thus obscured by land —
O Lud! it’s ten times worse upon the water!
Suppose, O Lud, to show its plan,
I call, like Blue Beard’s wife, to sister Anne,
Who’s gone to Beaufort Wharf with niece and aunt,
To see what she can see — and what she can’t; —
Chewing a saffron bun by way of cud,
To keep the fog out of a tender lung,
While perch’d in a verandah nicely hung
Over a margin of thy own black mud, O Lud!
Now Sister Anne, I call to thee,
Look out and see:
Of course about the bridge you view them rally
And sally,
With many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter; —
The Fishmongers’ grand boat, but not for butter,
The Goldsmith’s glorious galley;
Of course you see the Lord Mayor’s coach aquatic,
With silken banners that the breezes fan,
In gold all glowing,
And men in scarlet rowing,
Like Doge of Venice to the Adriatic;
Of course you see all this, O Sister Anne?
‘No, I see no such thing!
I only see the edge of Beaufort Wharf,
With two coal lighters fasten’d to a ring;
And, dim as ghosts,
Two little boys are jumping over posts;
And something, farther off,
That’s rather like the shadow of a dog,
And all beyond is fog.
If there be anything so fine and bright,
To see it I must see by second sight.
Call this a Show? It is not worth a pin!
I see no barges row, —
No banners blow;
The Show is merely a gallanty-show,
Without a lamp or any candle in.’
But sister Anne, my dear,
Although you cannot see, you still ‘may hear?
Of course you hear, I’m very sure of that,
The ‘Water Parted from the Sea,’ in C,
Or ‘Where the Bee sucks,’ set in B;
Or Huntsman’s chorus from the Freyschutz frightful,
Or Handel’s Water Music in A flat.
Oh music from the water comes delightful!
It sounds as nowhere else it can:
You hear it first
In some rich burst,
Then faintly sighing,
Tenderly dying,
Away upon the breezes, Sister Anne.
‘There is no breeze to die on;
And all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harps,
Could never cut their way with ev’n three sharps —
Through such a fog as this, you may rely on.
I think, but am not sure, I hear a hum,
Like a very muffled double drum,
And then a something faintly shrill,
Like. Bartlemy Fair’s old buz at Pentonville.
And now and then I hear a pop,
As if from Pedley’s Soda Water shop.
I’m almost ill with the strong scent of mud,
And, not to mention sneezing,
My cough is, more than usual, teasing; —
I really fear that I have chill’d my blood,
; O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!’
SONNET. THE SKY IS GLOWING IN ONE RUDDY SHEET
The sky is glowing in one ruddy sheet; —
A cry of fire! resounds from door to door;
And westward still the thronging people pour; —
The turncock hastens to F. P. 6 feet,
And quick unlocks the fountains of the street;
While rumbling engines, with increasing roar,
Thunder along to luckless Number Four,
Where Mr. Dough makes bread for folks to eat.
And now through blazing frames, and fiery beams,
The Globe, the Sun, the Phoenix, and what not, —
With gushing pipes throw up abundant streams,
On burning bricks, and twists, on rolls — too hot —
And scorching loaves, — as if there were no shorter
And cheaper way of making toast and-water!
RONDEAU
(EXTRACTED FROM A WELL-KNOWN ANNUAL)
O curious reader, didst thou ne’er
Behold a worshipful Lord May’r
Seated in his great civic chair
So dear?
Then cast thy longing eyes this way,
It is the ninth November day,
And in his new-born state survey
One here!
To rise from little into great
Is pleasant; but to sink in state
From high to lowly is a fate Severe.
Too soon his shine is overcast,
Chill’d by the next November blast;
His blushing honours only last
One year!
He casts his fur and sheds his chains,
And moults till not a plume remains —
The next impending May’r distrains
His gear.
He slips like water through a sieve —
Ah, could his little splendour live
Another twelvemonth — he would give
One ear!
SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION
‘An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to a Boney Parte.’Life of Napoleon.
Time was, I always had a drop
For any tale or sigh of sorrow;
My handkerchief I used to sop
Till often I was forced to borrow;
I don’t know how it is, but now
My eyelids seldom want a drying;
The doctors, p’rhaps, could tell me how —
I fear my heart is ossifying!
O’er Goethe how I used to weep,
With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,
When Werter put himself to sleep
With pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte;
Self-murder is an awful sin,
No joke there is in bullets flying,
But now at such a tale I grin —
I fear my heart is ossifying!
The Drama once could shake and thrill
My nerves, and set my tears a stealing,
The Siddons then could turn at will
Each plug upon the main of feeling;
At Belvidera now I smile,
And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying;
’Tis odd, so great a change of style —
I fear my heart is ossifying!
That heart was such — some years ago,
To see a beggar quite would shock it,
And in his hat I used to throw
The quarter’s savings of my pocket:
I never wish — as I did then! —
The means from my own purse supplying, —
To turn them all to gentlemen —
I fear my heart is ossifying!
We’ve had some serious things of late,
Our sympathies to beg or borrow,
New melo-drames, of tragic fate,
And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow;
Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt,
And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing,
But Lord! — so little have I felt,
I’m sure my heart is ossifying! —
THE POACHER
A SERIOUS BALLAD
‘But a bold pheasantry, their country’s pride,
When once destroyed can never be supplied.’ — Goldsmith.
Bill Blossom was a nice young man,
And drove the Bury coach;
But bad companions were his bane,
And egg’d him on to poach.
They taught him how to net the birds,
And how to noose the hare;
And with a wiry terrier,
He often set a snare.
Each ‘shiny night’ the moon was bright,
To park, preserve, and wood
He went, and kept the game alive,
By killing all he could.
Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore
That he had this demerit —
Give him an inch of warren, he
Would take a yard of ferret.
At partridges he was not nice;
And many, large and small,
Without Hall’s powder, without lead,
Were sent to Leaden-Hall.
He did not fear to take a deer
From forest, park, or lawn;
And without courting lord or duke,
Used frequently to fawn.
Folks who had hares discovered snares —
His course they could not stop:
No barber he, and yet he made
Their hares a perfect crop.
To pheasant he was such a foe,
He tried the keepers’ nerves; —
They swore he never seem’d to have
Jam satis of preserves.
The Shooter went to beat, and found
No sporting worth a pin,
Unless he tried the covers made
Of silver, plate, or tin.
In Kent the game was little worth,
In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried
The Manors about Sutton.
No county from his tricks was safe;
In each he tried his lucks,
And when the keepers were in Beds,
He often was at Bucks.
And when he went to Bucks, alas!
They always came to Herts;
And even Oxon used to wish
That he had his deserts.
But going to his usual Hants,
Old Cheshire laid his plots: —
He got entrapp’d by legal Berks,
And lost his life in Notts.
I CANNOT BEAR A GUN
‘Timidity is generally reckoged an essential attribute of the fair sex, and this absurd notion gives rise to more false starts, than a race for the Leger. Hence screams at mice, fits at spiders, faces at toads, jumps at lizards, flights from daddy longlegs, panics at wasps, sauve qui peut at sight of a gun. Surely, when the military exercise is made a branch of education at so many ladies’ academies, the use of the musket would only be a judicious step further in the march of mind. I should not despair, in a month’s practice, of making the most timid British female fond of smallarms.’ — Hints by a Corporal.
It can’t be minced, I’m quite convinced
All girls are full of flam,
Their feelings fine and feminine
Are nothing else but sham.
On all their tricks I need not fix,
I’ll only mention one,
How many a Miss will tell you this,
‘I cannot bear a gun!’
There’s cousin Bell can’t ‘bide the smell
Of powder — horrid stuff! —
A single pop will make her drop,
She shudders at a puff.
My Manton near, with aspen fear
Will make her scream and run:
‘It’s always so, you brute, you know
I cannot bear a gun!’
About my flask I must not ask,
I must not wear a belt,
I must not take a punch to make
My pellets, card or felt; —
And if I just allude to dust,
Or speak of number one,
‘I beg you’ll not — don’t talk of shot,
I cannot bear a gun!’
Percussion cap I dare not snap,
I may not mention Hall,
Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce,
His wadding to recall;
At Hawker’s book I must not look,
All shooting I must shun, —
Or else— ‘It’s hard, you’ve no regard,
I cannot bear a gun!’
The very dress I wear no less
Must suit her timid mind,
A blue or black must clothe my back,
With swallow-tails behind;
By fustian, jean, or velveteen
Her nerves are overdone:
‘Oh do not, John, put gaiters on,
I cannot bear a gun!’
Ev’n little James she snubs, and blames
His Lilliputian train,
Two inches each from mouth, to breech,
And charged with half a grain —
His crackers stopp’d, his squibbing dropp’d,
He has no fiery fun,
And all thro’ her, ‘How dare you, Sir?
I cannot bear a gun!’
Yet Major Flint, — the Devil’s in’t!
May talk from morn to night,
Of springing mines, and twelves and nines
And volleys left and right,
Of voltigeurs and tirailleurs,
And bullets by the ton:
She never dies of fright, and cries
‘I cannot bear a gun!’
It stirs my bile to see her smile
At all his bang and whiz,
But if I talk of morning walk,
And shots as good as his, —
I must not name the fallen game:
As soon as I’ve begun,
She’s in her pout, and crying out,
‘I cannot bear a gun!’
Yet, underneath the rose, her teeth
Are false, to match her tongue:
