by Thomas Hood
The Parish Beadle calling at the door!
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life,
They kept the apple-woman’s stalls away! —
* * * * *
Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh;
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d
He never lets the children play thereby.
* * * * *
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the Reverend Vicar all in lawn!
One morn I miss’d him on the ‘custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; —
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor at the Magpie and the Stump was he!
The next with hat and staff, and new array,
Along all sorts of streets we saw him borne;
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
He always brings upon a Christmas morn!
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,
And never failed on Sundays to attend! —
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode;
Where they alike in trembling hope repose,
John Bugsby, Number Thirteen, Tibbald’s Road.
A TABLE OF ERRATA
(Hostess loquitur)
Well! thanks be to Heaven,
The summons is given;
It’s only gone seven
And should have been six;
There’s fine overdoing
In roasting and stewing
And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!
How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly —
That John is so silly
And never will learn!
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one
The lamp wouldn’t burn.
Now then for some blunder,
For nerves to sink under;
I never shall wonder
Whatever goes ill,
That fish is a riddle!
It’s broke in the middle.
A Turbot! a fiddle!
It’s only a Brill!
It’s quite over-boil’d too,
The butter is oil’d too,
The soup is all spoil’d too,
It’s nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby
That Cook shall not stop!
As sure as the morning,
She gets a month’s warning,
My orders for scorning —
There’s nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet! —
Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter
That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,
I’m born to be vext!
The pudding brought on too!
And aiming at ton too! —
And where is that John too,
The plague that he is?
He’s off on some ramble:
And there is Miss Campbell,
Enjoying the scramble
Detestable Quiz!
The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,
An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that.
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it’s put on,
Converts to a button,
Each drop of the fat.
The beef, without mustard!
My fate’s to be fluster’d
And there comes the custard
To eat with the hare!
Such flesh, fowl, and fishing,
Such waiting and dishing,
I cannot help wishing
A woman might swear!
Oh dear! did I ever —
But no, I did never —
Well, come, that is clever,
To send up the brawn.
That cook, I could scold her,
Gets worse as she’s older;
I wonder who told her
That woodcocks are drawn! —
It’s really audacious!
I cannot look gracious,
Lord help the voracious
That came for a cram!
There’s Alderman Fuller
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the colour,
Were boil’d with the ham!
Well where is the curry?
I’m all in a flurry.
No, cook’s in no hurry —
A stoppage again!
And John makes it wider,
A pretty provider!
By bringing up cider
Instead of champagne!
My troubles come faster!
There’s my lord and master
Detects each disaster,
And hardly can sit: —
He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing;
If he begins d — ing
I’m off in a fit!
This cooking? — it’s messing,
The spinach wants pressing,
And salads in dressing
Are best with good eggs.
And John — yes, already —
Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs.
How shall I get through it!
I never can do it,
I’m quite looking to it,
To sink by and by.
Oh! would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now
And have a good cry! —
ALL ROUND MY HAT
A NEW VERSION
‘Meditate — meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim’s hat.’ — Trisiram Shandy.
Come, my old hat, my steps attend!
However wags may sneer and scoff,
My castor still shall be my friend,
For I’ll not be a caster off.
So take again your olden place,
That always found you fit and pat,
Whatever mode might please the race,
All round my hat, all round my hat!
All round the world while I’ve a head,
However I may chance to be
Without a home — without a shed,
My tile shall be a roof for me.
Black, rusty grey, devoid of pelt,
A shocking shape or beaten flat,
Still there are joys that may be felt
All round my hat, all round my hat.
The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no salam —
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.
All men in drab he calleth friends.
But there’s a broader brim than that —
Give me the love that comprehends
All round my hat, all round my hat!
The Monarch binds his brows in gold,
With gems and pearls to sparkle there;
But still a hat, a hat that’s old,
They say is much more easy wear.
At regal state I’ll not repine
For Kaiser, King, or Autocrat,
Whilst there’s a golden sun to shine
All round my hat, all round my hat!
The Soldier seeks the field of death,
He fights, he fires, he faints, he falls,
To gain an airy laurel wreath,
With berries made of musket balls.
No love have I for shot or shell,
With hissings sharp that end in flat —
Chafers and gnats sing just as well
All round my hat, all round my hat!
As yet, my hat, you’ve got a crown;
A little nap the brush can find;
You are not very, very brown,
Nor very much scrubb’d up behind.
As yet your rim is broad and brave,
I took some little care of that,
By not saluting ev’ry knave
All round my hat, all round my hat!
As yet, my hat, I’ve got a house,
And dine as other people do,
And fate propitious still allows
A home for me — a peg for you.
But say my bread were but a crumb,
Myself as poor as any rat —
Why, I could cry, ‘Good people, come
All round my hat, all round my hat!’
As yet the best of womankind
Continues all that wife should be,
And in the selfsame room I find,
Her bonnet and my hat agree.
But say the bliss should not endure,
That she should turn a perfect cat,
I’d trust to time to bring a cure,
All round my hat, all round my hat!
No acres broad pertain to me
To furnish cattle, coal, or corn;
Like people that are born at sea,
There was no land where I was born: —
Yet when my flag of life is furl’d —
What landlord can do more than that?
I’ll leave my heir the whole wide world
All round my hat, all round my hat!
BEN BLUFF
A PATHETIC BALLAD
‘Pshaw, you are not on a whaling voyage, where everything that offers is game.’ — The Pilot.
Ben Bluff was a whaler, and many a day
Had chased the huge fish about Baffin’s old Bay;
But time brought a change his division to spoil,
And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.
He turn’d up his nose at the fumes of the coke,
And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke:
As to London he briefly deliver’d his mind,
‘Sparm-city,’ said he — but the City declined.
So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff,
As soon as his Whales had brought profits enough,
And hard by the Docks settled down for his life,
But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.
A big one she was, without figure or waist,
More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste;
In fat she was lapp’d from her sole to her crown,
And, turn’d into oil would have lighted a town.
But Ben like a Whaler was charm’d with the match,
And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch;
A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace,
And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece.
For Greenland was green in his memory still;
He’d quitted his trade, but retain’d the good-will;
And often when soften’d by bumbo and flip,
Would cry — till he blubber’d — about his old ship.
No craft like the Grampus could work through a floe,
What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow,
And then that rich smell he preferr’d to the rose,
By just nosing the whole without holding his nose!
Now Ben he resolved one fine Saturday night,
A snug Arctic Circle of friends to invite,
Old Tars in the trade, who related old tales,
And drank, and blew clouds that were’very like whales.’
Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat
Of canting, and flinching, and cutting up fat;
And how Gun Harpoons into fashion had got,
And if they were meant for the Gun-whale or not?
At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest,
By fancies cetaceous, and drink, well possess’d,
When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,
He heard something blow through two holes in its head. —
‘A start!’ muttered Ben, in the Grampus afloat,
And made but one jump from the deck to the boat!
‘Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone —
I look on that whale as already my own!’
Then groping about by the light of the moon,
He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;
A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,
And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!
‘Starn all!’ he sang out,’ as you care for your lives —
Starn all, as you hope to return to your wives —
Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!
Well done, my old iron, I’ve sent you right home!’
And scarce had he spoken when Ιο I bolt upright
The Leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,
And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,
As only a fish out of water could do.
‘Starn all!’ echoed Ben, with a movement aback,
But too slow to escape from the creature’s attack;
If flippers it had, they were furnish’d with nails,
‘You willin, I’ll teach you that Women an’t Whales!’ —
‘Avast!’ shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech,
‘I’ve heard a Whale spouting, but here is a speech!’
‘ — A-spouting, indeed! — very pretty,’ said she;
‘But it’s you I’ll blow up, not the froth of the sea!
‘To go to pretend to take me for a fish!
You great Polar Bear — but I know what you wish —
You’re sick of a wife, that your hankering baulks —
You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!’
‘O dearest,’ cried Ben, frighten’d out of his life,
‘Don’t think I would go for to murder a wife —
I must long have bewail’d’ — But she only cried ‘Stuff!
Don’t name it, you brute, you’ve be-whaled me enough!’
‘Lord, Polly,’ said Ben,’ such a deed could I do?
I’d rather have murder’d all Wapping than you!
Come, forgive what is passed,’
‘O you monster!’ she cried,
‘It was none of your fault that it passed of one side!’
However, at last she inclined to forgive:
‘But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live —
If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,
Take a whale for a wife, not a wife for a whale.’ —
A PLAIN DIRECTION
‘Do you never deviate?’ John Bull.
In London once I lost my way
In faring to and fro,
And ask’d a little ragged boy
The way that I should go;
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
I box’d his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode; —
But since I’ve found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
I’ve read about a famous town
That drove a famous trade,
Where
Whittington walk’d up and found
A fortune ready made.
The very streets are paved with gold;
But how shall I get there?
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
I’ve read about a Fairy Land,
In some romantic tale,
Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive
And wicked Giants fail.
My wish is great, my shoes are strong,
But how shall I get there? —
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
I’ve heard about some happy Isle,
Where ev’ry man is free,
And none can lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.
Oh that’s the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’ —
I’ve dreamt about some blessed spot,
Beneath the blessed sky,
Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.
It’s cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
But how shall I get there?
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds,
And votes are never sold.
I’m fond of all antiquities,
But how shall I get there?
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
They say there is a Royal Court
Maintain’d in noble state,
Where ev’ry able man, and good,
Is certain to be great! —
I’m very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.’
