Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

by Thomas Hood

  They say there is a Temple too,

  Where Christians come to pray;

  But canting knaves and hypocrites,

  And bigots keep away.

  O ! that’s the parish church for me!

  But how shall I get there? —

  ‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,

  And all round the Square.’

  They say there is a Garden fair,

  That’s haunted by the dove,

  Where love of gold doth ne’er eclipse

  The golden light of love —

  The place must be a Paradise,

  But how shall I get there?

  ‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,

  And all round the Square.’ —

  I’ve heard there is a famous Land

  For public spirit known —

  Whose Patriots love its interests

  Much better than their own.

  The Land of Promise sure it is!

  But how shall I get there?

  ‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,

  And all round the Square.’

  I’ve read about a fine Estate,

  A mansion large and strong; —

  A view all over Kent and back,

  And going for a song.

  George Robins knows the very spot,

  But how shall I get there?

  ‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,

  And all round the Square.’

  I’ve heard there is a Company

  All formal and enroll’d,

  Will take your smallest silver coin

  And give it back in gold.

  Of course the office door is mobb’d,

  But how shall I get there?

  ‘Straight down the Crooked Lane

  And all round the Square.’

  I’ve heard about a pleasant land,

  Where omelettes grow on trees,

  And roasted pigs run crying out,

  ‘Come eat me, if you please.’

  My appetite is rather keen,

  But how shall I get there? —

  ‘Straight down the Crooked Lane,

  And all round the Square.’

  THE BACHELOR’S DREAM

  My pipe is lit, my grog is mix’d,

  My curtains drawn and all is snug;

  Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,

  And Tray is sitting on the rug.

  Last night I had a curious dream,

  Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  She look’d so fair, she sang so well,

  I could but woo and she was won,

  Myself in blue, the bride in white,

  The ring was placed, the deed was done!

  Away we went in chaise-and-four,

  As fast as grinning boys could flog —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  What loving tête-à-têtes to come!

  But tête-à-têtes must still defer!

  When Susan came to live with me,

  Her mother came to live with her!

  With sister Belle she couldn’t part,

  But all my ties had leave to jog —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  The mother brought a pretty Poll —

  A monkey too, what work he made!

  The sister introduced a Beau —

  My Susan brought a favourite maid.

  She had a tabby of her own,

  A snappish mongrel christen’d Gog —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  The Monkey bit — the Parrot scream’d,

  All day the sister strumm’d and sung;

  The petted maid was such a scold!

  My Susan learn’d to use her tongue:

  Her mother had such wretched health,

  She sate and croak’d like any frog —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  No longer Deary, Duck, and Love,

  I soon came down to simple ‘M!’

  The very servants cross’d my wish,

  My Susan let me down to them.

  The poker hardly seem’d my own,

  I might as well have been a log —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  My clothes they were the queerest shape!

  Such coats and hats she never met!

  My ways they were the oddest ways!

  My friends were such a vulgar set!

  Poor Tomkinson was snubb’d and huff’d —

  She could not bear that Mister Blogg —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  At times we had a spar, and then

  Mamma must mingle in the song —

  The sister took a sister’s part —

  The Maid declared her Master wrong —

  The Parrot learn’d to call me ‘Fool!’

  My life was like a London fog —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  My Susan’s taste was superfine,

  As proved by bills that had no end —

  I never had a decent coat —

  I never had a coin to spend!

  She forced me to resign my Club,

  Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  Each Sunday night we gave a rout

  To fops and flirts, a pretty list;

  And when I tried to steal away,

  I found my study full of whist!

  Then, first to come and last to go,

  There always was a Captain Hogg —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  Now was not that an awful dream

  For one who single is and snug —

  With Pussy in the elbow-chair

  And Tray reposing on the rug? —

  If I must totter down the hill,

  ’Tis safest done without a clog —

  What d’ye think of that, my Cat?

  What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

  RURAL FELICITY

  Well, the country’s a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that’s country born,

  And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn.

  It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down,

  Tho’ as yet all I’ve seen of a pastoral life only makes one more partial to town.

  At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss,

  For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss;

  There’s something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live stock,

  That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent flock;

  But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down,

  And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town.

  To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for miles,

  If it wasn’t for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles;

  For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you’re almost broken in two,

  If you clamber you’re certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through.

  Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles down,

  But still as to walking so stylishly, it’s pleasanter done about town.

  There’s a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that’s by a walk in a lane,

  And I did find a very nic
e shady one, but I never dared go again;

  For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn’t be kept in the pound,

  A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground.

  And that, by-the-by, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down,

  Ev’ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there’s only two up in town.

  Then I’ve rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly dew,

  And to meet Anrory, or whatever’s her name, and I always got wetted through;

  My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown,

  That’s not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town!

  As for picking flow’rs, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch,

  But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch;

  Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown,

  One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one’s bows about town.

  But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain,

  And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin’s Lane;

  And while you’re running all ducked and drown’d, and pelted with sixpenny drops,

  ‘Fine weather,’ you hear the farmers say; ‘a nice growing show’r for the crops!’ —

  But who’s to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown?

  For you can’t take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.

  Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts,

  And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts.

  Short cuts, indeed! But it’s nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt

  To scramble through gaps or jump over a ditch, when they’re morally certain she can’t,

  For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it’s almost daily the, case,

  Tho’ they don’t laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray! in their face.

  There’s the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond,

  And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till I walked in the duckweed pond:

  Or perhaps when I’ve pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down,

  As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town.

  Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find,

  But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind;

  For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown —

  And when gowns are dyed, I needn’t say, it’s much better done up in town.

  As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work!

  And ever since — and it’s ten days ago — we’ve lived upon nothing but pork;

  One Sunday except, and then I turn’d sick, a plague take all countrified cooks!

  Why didn’t they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks? —

  Then the gooseberry wine, tho’ it’s pleasant when up, it doesn’t agree when it’s down,

  But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to look for champagne out of town!

  To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan,

  And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can,

  Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I’m sure that I never shall learn,

  And I’ve fetch’d more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn; —

  But in making hay, tho’ it’s tanning work, I found it more easy to make,

  But it tries one’s legs, and no great relief when you’re tired to sit down on the rake.

  I’d a country dance too at a harvest home, with a regular country clown,

  But, Lord! they don’t hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town!

  Then I’ve tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs,

  I’m always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can’t even please the pigs.

  The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid eggs,

  And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs.

  I’ve been bump’d in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down,

  The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts — but they’re kept in cages in town! —

  Another thing is the nasty dogs — thro’ the village I hardly can stir

  Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur;

  And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down,

  But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town.

  Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright,

  But instead of a family murder it proved an owl that flies screeching at night.

  Then there’s plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can’t help dreaming of Swing —

  In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing;

  For besides all the troubles I’ve mentioned before as endur’d for rurality’s sake,

  I’ve been stung by the bees, and I’ve set among ants, and once — ugh! I trod on a snake! —

  And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I’ve got a particular skin,

  I do think it’s the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives the poor suicides in!

  And after all an’t there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill?

  And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles’s, and fresh butter wherever you will?

  And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown?

  So one isn’t so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town.

  Howsomever my mind’s made up, and although I’m sure cousin Giles will be vext,

  I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next,

  And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown,

  And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down! —

  A FLYING VISIT

  ‘A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine — find out moonshine!’ Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  The by-gone September,

  As folks may remember,

  At least if their memory saves but an ember,

  One fine afternoon,

  There went up a Balloon,

  Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

  For, nearing the sky,

  At about a mile high,

  The Aeronaut bold had resolved on a fly;

  So cutting his string,

  In a Parasol thing

  Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

  Meanwhile, thus adrift,

  The Balloon made a shift

  To rise very fast, with no burden to lift;

  It got very small,

  Then to nothing at all;

  And then rose the question of where it would fall?

  Some thought that, for lack

  Of the man and his pack,

  ’Twould rise to the Cherub that watches Poor Jack;

  Some held, but in vain,

  With the first heavy rain

  ’Twould surely come down to the

  Gardens again!

  But still not a word

  For a month could be heard

  Of what had become of the Wonderful

  Bird:

  The firm Gye and Hughes,

  Wore their boots out and shoes,

  In running about and inquiring for news. —

  Some thought it must be


  Tumbled into the Sea;

  Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie;

  For Germans, as shown

  By their writings, ’tis known

  Are always delighted with what is high-flown.

  Some hinted a bilk,

  And that maidens who milk,

  In far distant Shires would be walking in silk:

  Some swore that it must,

  ‘As they said at the fust,

  Have gone agin flashes of lightning and bust!’

  However, at last,

  When six weeks had gone past,

  Intelligence came of a plausible cast;

  A wondering clown,

  At a hamlet near town,

  Had seen ‘like a moon of green cheese’ coming down.

  Soon spread the alarm,

  And from cottage and farm,

  The natives buzz’d out like the bees when they swarm;

  And off ran the folk,

  It is such a good joke

  To see the descent of a bagful of smoke.

  And lo! the machine,

  Dappled yellow and green,

  Was plainly enough in the clouds to be seen:

  ‘Yes, yes,’ was the cry,

  ‘It’s the old one, surely,

  Where can it have been such a time in the sky? —

  ‘Lord! where will it fall?

  It can’t find out Vauxhall,

  Without any pilot to guide it at all!’

  Some wager’d that Kent

  Would behold the event,

  Debrett had been posed to predict its descent.

  Some thought it would pitch

  In the old Tower Ditch,

  Some swore on the Cross of St. Paul’s it would hitch; —

  And Farmers cried ‘Zounds!

  If it drops on our grounds,

  We’ll try if Balloons can’t be put into pounds!’

  But still to and fro

  It continued to go,

  As if looking out for soft places below;

  No difficult job,

  It had only to bob

  Slap-dash down at once on the heads of the mob:

  Who, too apt to stare

  At some castle in air,

  Forget that the earth is their proper affair;