by Thomas Hood
Sometimes it only paints a ferme ornée,
A horse — a cow — six fowls — a pig — and Mary,
Over the way!
Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite
Over the way!
I’ve coo’d with her in dreams, like any turtle,
I’ve snatch’d her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and Tay;
Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle
Over the way!
Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop,
Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat ‘po-shay,’
And shower’d crowns to make the horses gallop
Over the way!
And thrice I’ve started up from dreams appalling
Of killing rivals in a bloody fray —
There is a young man very fond of calling
Over the way!
Oh! happy man — above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,
And add a tale of love to that one story
Over the way!
Nabob of Arcot — Despot of Japan —
Sultan of Persia — Emperor of Cathay —
Much rather would I be the happy man
Over the way!
With such a lot my heart would be in clover —
But what — O horror! — what do I survey!
Postilions and white favours! — all is over
Over the way!
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun — one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain, —
Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out, —
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; —
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they’re going, whisper low, ‘No go!’
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking, grumble— ‘Drat that cat!’
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly; —
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press’d,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears — what faith is man’s — Ann’s banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!
DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR,TRUTH IN PARENTHESES
‘I really take it very kind,
This visit, Mrs. Skinner!
I have not seen you such an age —
(The wretch has come to dinner!)
‘Your daughters, too, what loves of girls —
What heads for painters’ easels!
Come here and kiss the infant, dears, —
(And give it p’rhaps the measles!)
‘Your charming boys I see are home
From Reverend Mr. Russel’s; —
’Twas very kind to bring them both, —
(What boots for my new Brussels!)
‘What! little Clara left at home?
Well now I call that shabby:
I should have lov’d to kiss her so, —
(A flabby, dabby, babby!)
‘And Mr. S., I hope he’s well,
Ah! though he lives so handy,
He never now drops in to sup, —
(The better for our brandy!) —
‘Come, take a seat — I long to hear
About Matilda’s marriage;
You’re come, of course, to spend the day! —
(Thank Heav’n, I hear the carriage!)
‘What! must you go? next time I hope
You’ll give me longer measure;
Nay — I shall see you down the stairs —
(With most uncommon pleasure!)
‘Good-bye! good-bye! remember all
Next time you’ll take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind I’m not at home
In future to the Skinners!)’
EPIGRAMS COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY LATELY PUBLISHED
That flesh is grass is now as clear as day,
To any but the merest purblind pup,
Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay,
My Lady B —— — . comes and rakes it up.
THE LAST WISH
When I resign this world so briary,
To have across the Styx my ferrying,
O, may I die without a diary!
And be interr’d without a BURY-ing!
The poor dear dead have been laid out in vain,
Turn’d into cash, they are laid out again!
THE DEVIL’S ALBUM
It will seem an odd whim
For a Spirit so grim
As the Devil to take a delight in;
But by common renown
He has come up to town,
With an Album for people to write in!
On a handsomer book
Mortal never did look,
Of a flame-colour silk is the binding,
With a border superb, —
Where through flowret and herb,
The old Serpent goes brilliantly winding!
By gilded grotesques,
And emboss’d arabesques,
The whole cover, in fact, is pervaded;
But, alas! in a taste
That betrays they were traced
At the will of a Spirit degraded!
As for paper — the best,
But extremely hot-pressed,
Courts the pen to luxuriate upon it,
And against ev’ry blank
There’s a note on the Bank,
As a bribe for a sketch or a sonnet.
Who will care to appear
In the Friend’s Souvenir,
Is a question to morals most vital;
But the very first leaf,
It’s the public belief,
Will be fill’d by a Lady of Title!
THE LOST HEIR
‘O where, and oh where
Is my bonny laddie gone?’ Old Song.
One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry,
That chill’d my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub’d with grease and mud.
She turn’d her East, she turn’d her West,
Staring like Pythoness possesst,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man —
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
; At last her frenzy seem’d to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean bird’s, —
Or female Ranter mov’d to preach,
She gave her ‘sorrow words.’
‘O Lord! O dear, my heart will break,
I shall go stick stark staring wild!
Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying lost-looking child?
Lawk help me, I don’t know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way —
A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.
I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, you wretch.) you little Kitty M’Nab!
You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys.
When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,
He’ll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don’t be making a mob in the street;
O serjeant M’Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don’t stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he’s p’r’aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake
of his clothes by the prigs;
He’d a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trowsers considering not very much patch’d, and red plush, they
was once his Father’s best pair.
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest;
But he’d got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast.
He’d a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew’d in, and not quite so much jagg’d at the brim,
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and, you’ll
know by that if it’s him.
Except being so well dress’d, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with, but I’d rather see him laid out in his coffin!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I’ll break every bone of ‘em I come near,
Go home — you’re spilling the porter — go home — Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer.
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan,
Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ: —
O my Billy — my head will turn right round — if he’s got kiddynapp’d with them Italians,
They’ll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemalions.
Billy — where are you, Billy? — I’m as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow!
And shan’t have half a voice, no more I shan’t, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.
O Billy, you’re bursting my heart in two, and my life won’t be of no more vally,
If I’m to see other folk’s darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley,
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair,
As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and there a’n’t no Billy there!
I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know’d where to run,
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny bun,
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me raily,
To find my Bill boldin’ up his little innocent hand at the Old Bailey.
For though I say it as oughtn’t, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses
And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end
to t’other of St. Giles’s.
And if I called him a beauty, it’s no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn’t been washed for a week;
As for hair, tho’ it’s red, it’s the most nicest hair when I’ve time to just show it the comb;
I’ll owe ‘em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home.
He’s blue eyes, and not to be call’d a squint, though a little cast he’s certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho’ the bridge- is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot;
He’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson’s child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways — but O I never never shall see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death’s door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang ‘em, was at twenty a penny!
And the threepence he’d got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.
And the Cholera man came and whitewash’d us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog. —
It s no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he’s such a blunderin’ drunken old dog;
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town.
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers!
I’m scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they’d run over
their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he’s stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketch’d,
and the chimbly’s red hot.
Oh! ‘d give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two
longin’ eyes on his face,
For he’s my darlin of darlins, and if he don’t soon come back, you’ll see me
drop stone dead on the place.
I only wish I’d got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn’t I hug him and kiss him!
Lank! I never knew what a precious he was — but a child don’t not feel like
a child till you miss him.
Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it’s that
Billy as sartin as sin!
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I’m blest if he shall
have a whole bone in his skin!’
JOHN DAY
A PATHETIC BALLAD
‘A Day after the Fair.’ — Old Proverb.
John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman-kind,
With back too broad to be conceiv’d
By any narrow mind.
The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear,
And wish’d his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.
Alas! against the shafts of love
What armour can avail? —
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.
The bar-maid of the Crown he lov’d,
From whom he never ranged,
For tho’ he changed his horses t
here,
His love he never changed.
He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.
One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump —
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.
Said she, my taste will never learn
To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can.
But still he stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’
He drove the Dart for years.
In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.
He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town,
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.
At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin;
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
Oh Mary, view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Tho’ I have never had a wife,
I’ve lost my better half.
Alas, in vain he still assail’d,
Her heart withstood the dint; —
Though he had carried sixteen stone
He could not move a flint.
Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being’s link;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.
Now some will talk in water’s praise,
And waste a deal of breath,
