by Thomas Hood
By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,
In murder’d English write Rock’s murderous commands.
XV.
But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm
The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,
All sudden fluttering from the brandish’d arm,
And cackling chorus with the human scream;
Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam
In Phelim’s brogues, which bares his naked skin,
Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,
That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,
Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win.
XVI.
No parent dear he hath to heed his cries; —
Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,
And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,
Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof,
Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin’s Isle,
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,
Dreaming he sees his home, — his Phelim smile; —
Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!
XVII.
Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,
When first the scholar lists in Learning’s train,
And mounts her rugged steep, enforc’d to climb,
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
Wherein, alas! no sugar’d juices dwell,
For this, the while one stripling’s sluices drain,
Another weepeth over chilblains fell,
Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!
XVIII.
Anon a third, for his delicious root,
Late ravish’d from his tooth by elder chit,
So soon is human violence afoot,
So hardly is the harmless biter bit!
Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit
And mouthing face, derides the small one’s moan,
Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,
Alack, — mischance comes seldom times alone,
But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.
XIX.
For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,
Smites his scald-head, that is already sore, —
Superfluous wound, — such is Misfortune’s rub!
Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,
And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,
That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry;
Washing, with brackish moisture, o’er and o’er,
His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,
Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.
XX.
So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,
And with his natural untender knack,
By new distress, bids former grievance cease,
Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,
That sets the mournful visage all awrack;
Yet soon the childish countenance will shine
Even as thorough storms the soonest slack,
For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,
This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak’d in brine.
XXI.
Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,
The Dominie lays ope the learned page;
(So be it called) although he doth expound
Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage;
Now telleth he of Rome’s rude infant age,
How Romulus was bred in savage wood,
By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage;
And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud,
But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.
XXII.
Anon, he turns to that Homeric war,
How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town;
And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car,
Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown;
And eke the bard, that sung of their renown,
In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn,
He paints, with colly, wand’ring up and down,
Because, at once, in seven cities born;
And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.
XXIII.
Anon, through old Mythology he goes,
Of Gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,
But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows
How Plato wise, and clear-ey’d Socrates,
Confess’d not to those heathen hes and shes;
But thro’ the clouds of the Olympic cope
Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys,
And own’d their love was naught, and bow’d to Pope,
Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope!
XXIV.
From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,
To new philosophies, that still are green,
And shows what railroads have been track’d, to guide
The wheels of great political machine;
If English corn should grow abroad, I ween,
And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet;
How many pigs be born to each spalpeen;
And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat, —
With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!
XXV.
Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth,
That stood around with serious look intense,
Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth,
Which they had opened to his eloquence,
As if their hearing were a threefold sense.
But now the current of his words is done,
And whether any fruits shall spring from thence,
In future time, with any mother’s son,
It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.
XXVI.
Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,
The hour is come to lay aside their lore;
The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon,
And cries, “Begone!” unto the imps, — and four
Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door,
Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,
All blithe and boisterous, — but leave two more,
With Reading made Uneasy for a task,
To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,
XXVII.
Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod,
With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,
That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,
So soothly kind is Erin to her own!
And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone, —
For Phelim’s gone to tend his step-dame’s cow;
Ah! Phelim’s step-dame is a canker’d crone!
Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,
And, with shillelah small, break one another’s brow!
XXVIII.
But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,
Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;
But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift
His college gown, because of solar glow,
And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow:
Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,
Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,
Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,
With that crisp curly herb, call’d Kale in Aberdeen.
XXIX.
And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,
Linked each to each by labour, like a bee;
Or rules in Learning’s hall, or trims her bow’rs; —
Would there were many more such wights as he,
To sway each capital academie
Of Cam and Isis; for, alack! at each
There dwells, I wot, some dronish
Dominie,
That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,
But wears a floury head, and talks in flow’ry speech!
THE SEA SPELL.
“Cauld, cauld, he lies beneath the deep.”
Old Scotch Ballad.
IT was a jolly mariner!
The tallest man of three, —
He loosed his sail against the wind,
And turned his boat to sea:
The ink-black sky told every eye,
A storm was soon to be!
But still that jolly mariner
Took in no reef at all,
For, in his pouch, confidingly,
He wore a baby’s caul;
A thing, as gossip-nurses know,
That always brings a squall!
His hat was knew, or, newly glazed,
Shone brightly in the sun;
His jacket, like a mariner’s,
True blue as e’er was spun;
His ample trowsers, like Saint Paul,
Bore forty stripes save one.
And now the fretting foaming tide
He steer’d away to cross;
The bounding pinnance play’d a game
Of dreary pitch and toss;
A game that, on the good dry land,
Is apt to bring a loss!
Good Heaven befriend that little boat,
And guide her on her way!
A boat, they say, has canvas wings,
But cannot fly away!
Though, like a merry singing-bird,
She sits upon the spray!
Still east by south the little boat,
With tawny sail, kept beating:
Now out of sight, between two waves,
Now o’er th’ horizon fleeting:
Like greedy swine that feed on mast, —
The waves her mast seem’d eating!
The sullen sky grew black above,
The wave as black beneath;
Each roaring billow show’d full soon
A white and foamy wreath;
Like angry dogs that snarl at first,
And then display their teeth.
The boatman looked against the wind,
The mast began to creak,
The wave, per saltum, came and dried.
In salt, upon his cheek!
The pointed wave against him rear’d.
As if it own’d a pique!
Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave,
That boatman could alarm,
But still he stood away to sea,
And trusted in his charm;
He thought by purchase he was safe.
And arm’d against all harm!
Now thick and fast and far aslant,
The stormy rain came pouring,
He heard, upon the sandy bank,
The distant breakers roaring, —
A groaning intermitting sound,
Like Gog and Magog snoring!
The sea-fowl shriek’d around the mast,
Ahead the grampus tumbled,
And far off, from a copper cloud,
The hollow thunder rumbled;
It would have quail’d another heart,
But his was never humbled.
For why? he had that infant’s caul;
And wherefore should he dread?
Alas! alas! he little thought,
Before the ebb-tide sped, —
That like that infant, he should die,
And with a watery head!
The rushing brine flow’d in apace;
His boat had ne’er a deck;
Fate seem’d to call him on, and he
Attended to her beck;
And so he went, still trusting on,
Though reckless — to his wreck!
For as he left his helm, to heave
The ballast-bags a-weather,
Three monstrous seas came roaring on,
Like lions leagued together.
The two first waves the little boat
Swam over like a feather. —
The two first waves were past and gone,
And sinking in her wake;
The hugest still came leaping on,
And hissing like a snake;
Now helm a-lee! for through the midst.
The monster he must take!
Ah, me! it was a dreary mount!
Its base as black as night,
Its top of pale and livid green,
Its crest of awful white,
Like Neptune with a leprosy, —
And so it rear’d upright!
With quaking sails, the little boat
CIimb’d up the foaming heap;
With quaking sails it paused awhile,
At balance on the steep;
Then rushing down the nether slope,
Plunged with a dizzy sweep!
Look, how a horse, made mad with fear,
Disdains his careful guide;
So now the headlong headstrong boat,
Unmanaged, turns aside,
And straight presents her reeling flank
Against the swelling tide!
The gusty wind assaults the sail;
Her ballast lies a-lee!
The sheet’s to windward taught and stiff!
Oh! the Lively — where is she?
Her capsiz’d keel is in the foam,
Her pennon’s in the sea!
The wild gull, sailing overhead,
Three times beheld emerge
The head of that bold mariner,
And then she screamed his dirge
For he had sunk within his grave
Lapp’d in a shroud of surge!
The ensuing wave, with horrid foam
Rush’d o’er and cover’d all, —
The jolly boatman’s drowning scream
Was smother’d by the squall, —
Heaven never heard his cry, nor did
The ocean heed his caul.
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
BEN Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war’s alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!
Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, “Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!”
The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he,— “They’re only pegs:
But there’s as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs!”
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devours,
When he’d devour’d his pay!
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off!
“O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be more uniform!”
Said she, “I loved a soldier once,
For he was blithe and brave;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave!”
“Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow,
But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing now!”
“O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty’s call, I left my legs
In Badajos’s breaches!”
“Why, then,” said she, “you’ve lost the feet
Of legs in war’s alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms!”
“O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!
I know why you refuse: —
Though I’ve no feet — some other man
Is standing in my shoes!”
“I wish I ne’er had seen your face;
But, now, a long farewell!
For you will be my death: — alas!
You will not be my Nell!”
Now when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so heavy got —
And life was such a burthen grown,
It made him take a knot!
So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line!
One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And, as his legs were off, — of course,
He soon was off his legs!
And there he hung, till he was dead
As any nail in town, —
For though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down!
A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died —
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a stake in his inside!
WHIMS AND ODDITIES. SECOND SERIES (1827)
CONTENTS
BIANCA’S DREAM.
MARY’S GHOST.
THE PROGRESS OF ART.
A LEGEND OF NAVARRE.
THE DEMON-SHIP.
A TRUE STORY.
TIM TURPIN.
THE MONKEY-MARTYR.
DEATH’S RAMBLE.
CRANIOLOGY.
A PARTHIAN GLANCE.
A SAILOR’S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.
JACK HALL.
THE WEE MAN.
A BUTCHER.
DON’T YOU SMELL FIRE?
THE VOLUNTEER.
THE WIDOW.
