Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  O days of old, O days of Knights,

  Of tourneys and of tilts,

  When love was balk’d and valour stalk’d

  On high heroic stilts —

  Where are ye gone? — adventures cease,

  The world gets tame and flat, —

  We’ve nothing now but New Police —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  I wish I ne’er had learn’d to read,

  Or Radcliffe how to write; —

  That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,

  And Lewis cloister’d quite!

  Would I had never drunk so deep

  Of dear Miss Porter’s vat;

  I only turn to life, and weep —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  No Bandits lurk — no turban’d Turk

  To Tunis bears me off —

  I hear no noises in the night

  Except my mother’s cough,

  No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house;

  No shape, — but owl or bat,

  Come flitting after moth or mouse —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  I have not any grief profound,

  Or secrets to confess,

  My story would not fetch a pound

  For A. K. Newman’s press;

  Instead of looking thin and pale,

  I’m growing red and fat, —

  As if I lived on beef and ale —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  It’s very hard, by land or sea

  Some strange event I court,

  But nothing ever comes to me

  That’s worth a pen’s report:

  It really made my temper chafe,

  Each coast that I was at,

  I vow’d and rail’d, and came home safe, —

  There’s no Romance in that! —

  The only time I had a chance,

  At Brighton one fine day,

  My chestnut mare began to prance,

  Took fright, and ran away;

  Alas! no Captain of the Tenth

  To stop my steed came pat;

  A Butcher caught the rein at length —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  Love — even love — goes smoothly on

  A railway sort of track —

  No flinty sire, no jealous Don!

  No hearts upon the rack;

  No Polydore, no Theodore —

  His ugly name is Mat,

  Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  He is not dark, he is not tall, —

  His forehead’s rather low,

  He is not pensive — not at all,

  But smiles his teeth to show; —

  He comes from Wales and yet in size

  Is really but a sprat;

  With sandy hair and greyish eyes. —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,

  Or long sword hanging down;

  He dresses much like other folks,

  And commonly in brown;

  His collar he will not discard,

  Or give up his cravat, —

  Lord Byron-like’ — he’s not a Bard —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  He’s rather bald, his sight is weak,

  He’s deaf in either drum;

  Without a lisp he cannot speak,

  But then — he’s worth a plum.

  He talks of stocks and three per cents.

  By way of private chat,

  Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents, —

  There’s no Romance in that! —

  I sing — no matter what I sing,

  Di Tanti — or Crudel,

  Tom Bowling, or God save the King,

  Di piacer — All’s Well;

  He knows no more about a voice

  For singing than a gnat —

  And as to Music ‘has no choice,’ —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  Of light guitar I cannot boast,

  He never serenades; —

  He writes, and sends it by the post,

  He doesn’t bribe the maids:

  No stealth, no hempen ladder — no!

  He comes with loud rat-tat,

  That startles half of Bedford Row —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  He comes at nine in time to choose.

  His coffee — just two cups,

  And talks with Pa about the news,

  Repeats debates, and sups, —

  John helps him with his coat aright,

  And Jenkins hands his hat;

  My lover bows, and says good-night —

  There’s no Romance in that!

  I’ve long had Pa’s and Ma’s consent,

  My aunt she quite approves,

  My Brother wishes joy from Kent,

  None try to thwart our loves;

  On Tuesday, reverend Mr. Mace

  Will make me Mrs. Pratt, —

  Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place —

  There’s no Romance in that.

  A WATERLOO BALLAD

  To Waterloo, with sad ado,

  And many a sigh and groan,

  Amongst the dead, came Patty Head

  To look for Peter Stone.

  ‘O prithee tell, good sentinel,

  If I shall find him here?

  I’m come to weep upon his corse,

  My Ninety-Second dear!

  ‘Into our town a serjeant came,

  With ribands all so fine —

  A-flaunting in his cap — alas!

  His bow enlisted mine!

  ‘They taught him howto turn his toes,

  And stand as stiff as starch;

  I thought that it was love and May,

  But it was love and March!

  ‘A sorry March indeed to leave

  The friends he might have kep’, —

  No March of Intellect it was,

  But quite a foolish step.

  ‘O prithee tell, good sentinel,

  If hereabout he lies?

  I want a corpse with reddish hair,

  And very sweet blue eyes.’

  Her sorrow on the sentinel

  Appear’d to deeply strike:

  ‘Walk in,’ he said, ‘among the dead,

  And pick out which you like.’

  And soon she pick’d out Peter Stone,

  Half turned into a corse; —

  A cannon was his bolster, and

  His mattrass was a horse.

  ‘O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,

  Lord, here has been a skrimmage!

  What have they done to your poor breast,

  That used to hold my image?’

  ‘O Patty Head, O Patty Head,

  You’re come to my last kissing;

  Before I’m set in the Gazette

  As wounded, dead, and missing.

  ‘Alas! a splinter of a shell

  Right in my stomach sticks;

  French mortars don’t agree so well

  With stomachs as French bricks.

  ‘This very night a merry dance

  At Brussels was to be; —

  Instead of opening a ball,

  A ball has open’d me.

  ‘Its billet every bullet has,

  And well does it fulfil it;

  I wish mine hadn’t come so straight,

  But been a ‘crooked billet.’

  ‘And then there came a cuirassier

  And cut me on the chest; —

  He had no pity in his heart,

  For he had steel’d his byeast.

  ‘Next thing a lancer, with his lance

  Began to thrust away;

  I call’d for quarter, but, alas!

  It was not Quarter-day.

  ‘He ran his spear right through my arm,

  Just here above the joint: —

  O Patty dear, it was no joke,

  Although it had a point.
>
  ‘With loss of blood I fainted off

  As dead as women do —

  But soon by charging over me,

  The Coldstyeams brought me to.

  ‘With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows,

  I throb and ache all over; —

  I’m quite convinc’d the field of Mars

  Is not a field of clover!

  ‘O why did I a soldier turn,

  For any royal Guelph?

  I might have been a butcher, and

  In business for myself!

  ‘O why did I the bounty take?

  (And here he gasp’d for breath)

  My shillingsworth of ‘list is nail’d

  Upon the door of death.

  ‘Without a coffin I shall lie,

  And sleep my sleep eternal:

  Not ev’n a shell — my only chance

  Of being made a Kernel!

  ‘O Patty dear, our wedding bells,

  Will never ring at Chester!

  Here I must lie in Honour’s bed,

  That isn’t worth a tester!

  ‘Farewell, my regimental mates,

  With whom I used to dress! —

  My corps is changed, so I am now,

  In quite another mess.

  ‘Farewell, my Patty dear, I have

  No dying consolations,

  Except, when I am dead, you’ll go

  And see th’ Illuminations.’

  SHOOTING PAINS

  ‘The charge is prepared.’ — Macheath.

  If I shoot any more I’ll be shot,

  For ill-luck seems determined to star me,

  I have march’d the whole day

  With a gun, — for no pay —

  Zounds, I’d better have been in the army!

  What matters Sir Christopher’s leave;

  To his manor I’m sorry I came yet!

  With confidence fraught,

  My two pointers I brought,

  But we are not a point towards game yet! —

  And that gamekeeper too, with advice!

  Of my course he has been a nice chalker,

  Not far, were his words,

  I could go without birds:

  If my legs could cry out, they’d cry ‘Walker!’

  Not Hawker could find out a flaw, —

  My appointments are modern and Mantony,

  And I’ve brought my own man,

  To mark down all he can,

  But I can’t find a mark for my Antony!

  The partridges, — w’here can they lie?

  I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas,

  As the least I could do;

  But without even two

  To brace me, — I’m getting quite nervous!

  To the pheasants — how well they’re preserved!

  My sport’s not a jot more beholden,

  As the birds are so shy,

  For my friends I must buy,

  And so send ‘silver pheasants and golden.’ —

  I have tried ev’ry form for a hare,

  Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,

  With toil unrelax’d,

  Till my patience is tax’d,

  But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder.

  I’ve been roaming for hours in three flats

  In the hope of a snipe for a snap at;

  But still vainly I court

  The percussioning sport,

  I find nothing for ‘setting my cap at!’

  A woodcock, — this month is the time,

  Right and left I’ve made ready my lock for,

  With well-loaded double,

  But spite of my trouble,

  Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

  A rabbit I should not despise,

  But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;

  This day’s the eleventh,

  It is not the seventh,

  But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

  For a mallard I’ve waded the marsh,

  And haunted each pool, and each lake — oh!

  Mine is not the luck,

  To obtain thee, O Duck,

  Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

  For a field-fare I’ve fared far a-field,

  Large or small I am never to sack bird,

  Not a thrush is so kind

  As to fly, and I find —

  I may whistle myself for a black-bird!

  I am angry, I’m hungry, I’m dry,

  Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,

  And so weary an elf,

  I am sick of myself,

  And with Number One seem overloaded.

  As well one might beat round St. Paul’s,

  And look out for a cock or a hen there;

  I have search’d round and round

  All the Baronet’s ground,

  But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there! —

  Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,

  But for nightcaps they set me desiring,

  And it’s really too bad,

  Not a shot I have had

  With Hall’s Powder, renown’d for ‘quick firing.’

  If this is what people call sport,

  Oh! of sporting I can’t have a high sense,

  And there still remains one

  More mischance on my gun —

  ‘Fined for shooting without any licence.’ —

  THE BOY AT THE NORE

  ‘Alone I did it! — Boy!’ — Coriolanus.

  I say, little Boy at the Nore,

  Do you come from the small Isle of Man?

  Why, your history a mystery must be, —

  Come tell us as much as you can,

  Little Boy at the Nore!

  You live it seems wholly on water,

  Which your Gambier calls living in clover; —

  But how comes it, if that is the case,

  You’re eternally half seas over, —

  Little Boy at the Nore?

  While you ride — while you dance — while you float —

  Never mind your imperfect orthography; —

  But give us as well as you can,

  Your watery auto-biography,

  Little Boy at the Nore!

  LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR

  I’m the tight little Boy at the Nore,

  In a sort of sea negus I dwells;

  Half and half ‘twixt salt water and Port, —

  I’m reckon’d the first of the swells —

  I’m the Boy at the Nore!

  I lives with my toes to the flounders,

  And watches through long days and nights;

  Yet, cruelly eager, men look —

  To catch the first glimpse of my lights —

  I’m the Boy at the Nore!

  I never gets cold in the head,

  So my life on salt water is sweet, — ;

  I think I owes much of my health

  To being well used to wet feet —

  As the Boy at the Nore.

  There’s one thing, I’m never in debt: Nay! —

  I liquidates more than I oughter; —

  So the man to beat Cits as goes by,

  In keeping the head above water,

  Is the Boy at the Nore.

  I’ve seen a good deal of distress,

  Lots of Breakers in Ocean’s Gazette;

  They should do as I do — rise o’er all;

  Aye, a good floating capital get,

  Like the Boy at the Nore!

  I’m a’ter the sailor’s own heart,

  And cheers him, in deep water rolling;

  And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk,

  Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling,

  Is the Boy at the Nore!

  Could I e’er but grow up, I’d be off

  For a week to make love with my wheedles;

  If the tight little Boy at the Nore

  Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles,

  We’d have two at the Nore.

&n
bsp; They thinks little of sizes on water,

  On big waves the tiny one skulks, —

  While the river has Men of War onit —

  Yes — the Thames is oppress’d with Great Hulks,

  And the Boy’s at the Nore!

  But I’ve done — for the water is heaving

  Round my body as though it would sink it!

  And I’ve been so long pitching and tossing,

  That sea-sick — you’d hardly now think it —

  Is the Boy at the Nore!

  ODE TO ST. SWITHIN

  ‘The rain it raineth every day.

  The Dawn is overcast, the morning low’rs,

  On ev’ry window-frame hang beaded damps

  Like rows of small illumination lamps

  To celebrate the Jubilee of Show’rs!

  A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves,

  The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers,

  And from the Houses’ eaves

  Tumble eaves-droppers.

  The hundred clerks that live along the street,

  Bondsmen to mercantile and city schemers,

  With squashing, sloshing, and galloshing feet,

  Go paddling, paddling, through the wet, like steamers,

  Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend —

  Umbrellas pass of every shade of green,

  And now and then a crimson one is seen.

  Like an Umbrella ripen’d.

  Over the way a waggon

  Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking,

  While in the George and Dragon

  The man is keeping himself dry — and drinking!

  The Butcher’s boy skulks underneath his tray,

  Hats Shine — shoes don’t — and down droop collars,

  And one blue Parasol cries all the way

  To school, in company with four small scholars!

  Unhappy is the man to-day who rides,