Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into ‘em at her death,

  Thoùgh she’s a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath.

  Well! you think the things will mend — if they wont, Lord mend us all!

  My Lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won’t need to call: —

  I’ll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give,

  He won’t sit down again on Chiny the longest day he has to live.

  Poor soul! I only hope it won’t forbid his banns of marriage,

  Or he’d better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady’s carriage.

  But you’ll join ‘em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert’s friend;

  I’ll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend.

  To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats;

  Here’s this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats:

  Be particular with the pagoda: and then here’s this pretty bowl —

  The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole; —

  And here’s another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll —

  Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol.

  But I needn’t tell you what to do; only do it out of hand,

  And charge whatever you like to charge — my Lady won’t make a stand.

  Well! good morning, Mr. What-d’ye-call; for it’s time our gossip ended:

  And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiny’s mended.

  ODE TO SPENCER PERCEVAL, ESQ., M.P.

  Oh, Mr. Spencer! —

  I mean no offence, Sir —

  Retrencher of each trencher, man or woman’s;

  Maker of days of ember,

  Eloquent member

  Of the House of Com —— — I mean to say short commons,

  Thou Long Tom Coffin singing out,

  ‘Hold fast’ — Avast!

  Oh! Mr. Perceval, I’ll bet a dollar, a

  Great growth of cholera,

  And new deaths reckon’d,

  Will mark thy Lenten twenty-first and second.

  The best of our physicians, when they con it,

  Depose the malady is in the air:

  Oh, Mr. Spencer! — if the ill is there,

  Why should you bid the people live upon it? —

  Why should you make discourses against courses;

  While Doctors, though they bid us rub and chafe,

  Declare, of all resources,

  The man is safest who gets in the safe?

  And yet you bid poor suicidal sinners

  Discard their dinners!

  Thoughtless how Heav’n above will look upon’t,

  For men to die so wantonly of want!

  By way of a variety,

  Think of the ineffectual piety

  Of London’s Bishop, at St. Faith’s or Bride’s,

  Lecturing such chameleon insides,

  Only to find

  He’s preaching to the wind.

  Whatever others do, or don’t,

  I cannot — dare not — must not fast, and wont,

  Unless by night your day you let me — keep,

  And fast asleep;

  My constitution can’t obey such censors:

  I must have meat

  Three times a day to eat,

  My health’s of such a sort,

  To say the truth in short —

  The coats of my stomach are not Spencers. —

  ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT

  Farewell, Sir Walter Scott, secured

  From Time, our greatest of Inditers!

  No Author’s fame’s so well assur’d,

  For all who wrote were Under-writers.

  A PUBLIC DINNER

  ‘“Sit down and fall to,” said the Barmecide.’ — Arabian Nights.

  At seven you just nick it,

  Give card — get wine ticket;

  Walk round through the Babel,

  From table to table,

  To find — a hard matter,

  Your name in a platter;

  Your wish was to sit by

  Your friend Mr. Whitby,

  But stewards’ assistance,

  Has placed you at distance,

  And thanks to arrangers,

  You sit among strangers;

  But too late for mending,

  Twelve sticks come attending

  A stick of a Chairman,

  A little dark spare man,

  With bald shining nob,

  ‘Mid Committee swell mob,

  In short a short figure,

  You thought the Duke bigger;

  Then silence is wanted,

  Non Nobis is chanted;

  Then Chairman reads letter,

  The Duke’s a regretter,

  A promise to break it,

  But chair he can’t take it;

  Is grieved to be from us,

  But sends friend Sir Thomas,

  And what is far better,

  A cheque in the letter,

  Hear! hear! and a clatter,

  And there ends the matter.

  Now soups come and fish in,

  And C —— — brings a dish in;

  Then rages the battle,

  Knives clatter, forks rattle,

  Steel forks with black handles,

  Under fifty wax candles.

  Your soup-plate is soon full,

  You sip just a spoonful.

  Mr. Roe will be grateful

  To send him a plateful;

  And then comes the Waiter,

  ‘Must trouble for ‘tater;’

  And then you drink wine off

  With somebody — nine off;

  Bucellas, made handy,

  With Cape and bad Brandy,

  Or East India Sherry,

  That’s very hot — very.

  You help Mr. Myrtle,

  Then find your mock turtle

  Went off while you lingered

  With waiter light-fingered.

  To make up for gammon,

  You order some salmon,

  Which comes to your fauces,

  With boats without sauces.

  You then make a cut on

  Some Lamb, big as Mutton,

  And ask for some grass too,

  But that you must pass too;

  It serv’d the first twenty,

  But toast there is plenty.

  Then, while lamb gets coldish,

  A goose that is oldish —

  At carving not clever —

  You’re begg’d to dissever,

  And when thus you treat it,

  Find no one will eat it.

  So, hungry as glutton,

  You turn to your mutton,

  But — no sight for laughter,

  The soup it’s gone after.

  Mr. Green then is very

  Disposed to take sherry,

  And then Mr. Nappy

  Will feel very happy,

  And then Mr. Conner

  Requests the same honour; —

  Mr. Clark, when at leisure,

  Will really feel pleasure,

  Then Waiter leans over,

  To take off a cover

  From fowls, which all beg of,

  A wing or a leg of;

  And while they all peck bone,

  You take to a neck bone.

  But even your hunger

  Declares for a younger.

  A fresh plate you call for,

  But vainly you bawl for;

  Now taste disapproves it,

  No waiter removes it.

  Still hope newly budding,

  Relies on a pudding;

  But critics each minute

  Set fancy agin it —

  ‘That’s queer vermicelli.’

  ‘I say, Vizetelly,

  There’s glue in that jelly.’

  ‘Tarts bad altogether;

 
That crust’s made of leather.’

  ‘Some custard, friend Vesey?’

  ‘No — batter made easy.’

  ‘Some cheese, Mr. Foster?’

  ‘ — Don’t like single Glos’ter.’

  Meanwhile to top table,

  Like fox in the fable,

  You see silver dishes,no

  With those little fishes,

  The white bait delicious,

  Borne past you officious;

  And hear rather plainish,

  A sound that’s champaignish,

  And glimpse certain bottles

  Made long in the throttles,

  And sniff — very pleasant!

  Grouse, partridge, and pheasant,

  And see mounds of ices,

  For Patrons and Vices;

  Pine apple, and bunches

  Of grapes, for sweet munches,

  And fruits of all virtue

  That really desert you.

  You’ve nuts, but not crack ones,

  Half empty, and black ones;

  With oranges sallow —

  They can’t be called yellow —

  Some pippins well wrinkled,

  And plums almond sprinkled,

  Some rout cakes, and so on,

  Then with business to go on;

  Long speeches are stutter’d,

  And toasts are well butter’d,

  While dames in the gallery,

  All dressed in fallallery,

  Look on at the mummery:

  And listen to flummery.

  Hip, hip, and huzzaing,

  And singing and saying,

  Glees, catches, orations,

  And lists of donations.

  Hush, a song, Mr. Tinney —

  ‘Mr. Benbow, one guinea;

  Mr. Frederick Manual,

  One guinea, and annual.’

  Song — Jockey and Jenny —

  ‘Mr. Markham, one guinea.’

  ‘Have you all filled your glasses?

  Here’s a health to good lasses.’

  The subscription still skinny —

  ‘Mr. Franklin, one guinea,’

  Franklin looks like a ninny;

  ‘Mr. Boreham, one guinea —

  Mr. Brogg, Mr. Finney,

  Mr. Tempest — one guinea,

  Mr. Merrington — twenty,’

  Rough music in plenty.

  Away toddles Chairman,

  The little dark spare man

  Not sorry at ending

  With white sticks attending,

  And some vain Tomnoddy,

  Votes in his own body

  To fill the void seat up,

  And get on his feet up,

  To say, with voice squeaking,

  ‘Unaccustomed to speaking,’

  Which sends you off seeking

  Your hat, number thirty —

  No coach — very dirty.

  So, hungry and fever’d,

  Wet-footed — spoilt-beaver’d,

  Eyes aching in socket,

  Ten pounds out of pocket,

  To Brook-Street the Upper,

  You haste home to supper.

  ODE TO ADMIRAL LORD GAMBIER, G.C.B.

  ‘Well, if you reclaim such as Hood, your Society will deserve the thanks of the country.’ —

  Temperance Society’s Herald, vol i, No. I, p. 8.

  ‘My father, when last I from Guinea

  Came home with abundance of wealth,

  Said, “ Jack never be such a ninny

  As to drink—” says I, “Father, your health.’”

  Nothing like Grog.

  I

  Oh! Admiral Gam —— — I dare not mention bier,

  In such a temperate ear,

  Oh! Admiral Gam —— — an Admiral of the Blue,

  Of course to read the Navy List aright,

  For strictly shunning wine of either hue,

  You can’t be Admiral of the Red or White: —

  Oh, Admiral Gam! consider ere you call

  On merry Englishmen to wash their throttles

  With water only; and to break their bottles

  To stick, for fear of trespass, on the wall —

  Of Exeter Hall!

  II

  Consider, I beseech, the contrariety

  Of cutting off our brandy, gin, and rum

  And then, by tracts, inviting us to come

  And ‘mix in your society!’

  In giving rules to dine, or sup, or lunch,

  Consider Nature’s ends before you league us

  To strip the Isle of Rum of all its punch —

  To dock the Isle of Mull of all its negus —

  Or doom — to suit your milk-and-water view —

  The Isle of Skye to nothing but sky-blue!

  III

  ‘Consider, for appearance’ sake, consider

  The sorry figure of a spirit-ridder,

  Going on this crusade against the suttler;

  A sort of Hudibras — without a Butler!

  IV

  Consider — ere you break the ardent spirits

  Of father, mother, brother, sister, daughter;

  What are your beverage’s washy merits?

  Gin may be low — but I have known low-water!

  V

  Consider well, before you thus deliver,

  With such authority, your slpppy canon;

  Should British tars taste nothing but the river,

  Because the Chesapeake once fought the Shannon?

  VI

  Consider too — before all Eau-de-vie,

  Schiedam, or other drinkers, you rebut —

  To bite a bitten dog all curs agree;

  But who would cut a man because he’s cut?

  VII

  Consider — ere you hid the poor to fill

  Their murmuring stomachs with the ‘murmuring rill,’ — Consider that their streams are not like ours,

  Reflecting heav’n, margin’d by sweet flow’rs;

  On their dark pools by day no sun reclines,

  By night no Jupiter, no Venus shines;

  Consider life’s sour taste, that bids them mix

  Rum with their Acheron, or gin with Styx:

  If you must pour out water to the poor, oh!

  Let it be aqua d’oro!

  VIII

  Consider — ere as furious as a griffin,

  Against a glass of grog you make such work,

  A man may like a stiff ‘un,

  And yet not be a Burke!

  IX

  Consider, too, before you bid all skinkers

  Turn water-drinkers,

  What sort of fluid fills their native rivers;

  Their Mudiboo’s, and. Niles, and Guadalquivers.

  How should you like, yourself, in glass or mug,

  The Bog — the Bug —

  The Maine — the Weser — or that freezer, Neva?

  Nay, take the very rill of classic ground —

  Lord Byron found

  Ev’n Castaly the better for Geneva.

  X

  Consider — if to vote Reform’s arrears,

  His Majesty should please to make you peers,

  Your titles would be very far from trumps,

  To figure in a book of blue and red: —

  The Duke of Draw-well — what a name to dread!

  Marquis of Main-pipe; Earl New-River-Head!

  And Temperance’s chief, the Prince of Pumps!

  THE CIGAR

  ‘Here comes Mr. Puff.’ — The Critic,

  Ί knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl’d.’ — Moore.

  Some sigh for this and that,

  My wishes don’t go far,

  The world may wag at will,

  So I have my cigar.

  Some fret themselves to death

  With Whig and Tory jar;

  I don’t care which is in,

  So I have my cigar.

  Sir John requests my vote,

  And so does
Mr. Marr; —

  I don’t care how it goes,

  So I have my cigar.

  Some want a German row,

  Some wish a Russian war,

  I care not — I’m at peace,

  So I have my cigar.

  I never see the Post,

  I seldom read the Star,

  The Globe I scarcely heed,

  So I have my cigar. —

  They tell me that Bank Stock

  Is sunk much under par;

  It’s all the same to me,

  So I have my cigar.

  Honours have come to men

  My juniors at the Bar;

  No matter — I can wait,

  So I have my cigar.

  Ambition frets me not;

  A cab or glory’s car —

  Are just the same to me,

  So I have my cigar.

  I worship no vain Gods,

  But serve the household Lar

  I’m sure to be at home,

  So I have my cigar.

  I do not seek for fame,

  A General with a scar;

  A private let me be,

  So I have my cigar. —

  To have my choice among

  The toys of life’s bazaar,

  The deuce may take them all,

  So I have my cigar.

  Some minds are often tost

  By tempests like a tar;

  I always seem in port,

  So I have my cigar.

  The ardent flame of love

  My bosom cannot char,

  I smoke, but do not burn,

  So I have my cigar.

  They tell me Nancy Low,

  Has married Mr. R.;

  The jilt! but I can live,

  So I have my cigar.

  A CHARITY SERMON

  ‘“I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you; and, believe me, I will

  shortly pay thee another visit; but my friends, I fancy, wonder at my stay, so let me have the

  money immediately.” Trulliber then put a stern look, and cried out, “Thou dost not intend to rob me?”

  * * * * *

  ‘“ I would have thee know, friend,” addressing himself to Adams, “ I shall not learn my duty