by Thomas Hood
from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds.” ‘ — Joseph Andrews.
I’m an extremely charitable man — no collar and long hair, though a little carroty;
Demure, half-inclined to the unknown tongues, but I never gain’d anything by Charity —
I got a little boy into the Foundling, but his unfortunate mother was traced and baited,
And the overseers found her out — and she found me out — and the child was affiliated.
Oh, Charity will come home to roost —
Like curses and chickens is Charity.
I once, near Whitehall’s very old wall, when ballads danc’d over the whole of it,
Put a bad five-shilling piece into a beggar’s hat, but the old hat had got a hole in it;
And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer’s eye seem’d to care for it,
As my bad crown-piece went through his bad crownpiece, and they took me
up to Queen’s Square for it.
Oh, Charity, &c.
I let my very old (condemn’d) old house to a man, at a rent that was shockingly low,
So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes — all defunct and fatherless now;
For the plaguey one-sided party-wall fell in, so did the roof, on son and daughter,
And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a very personal
verdict of Manslaughter.
Oh, Charity, &c. I
I picked up a young well-dress’d gentleman, who had fallen in a fit in St.
Martin’s Court,
And charitably offer’d to see him home, for charity always seem’d to be my forte,
And I’ve had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home, but this was a very unlucky job —
Do you know, he got my watch — my purse — and my handkerchief — for it
was one of the swell mob.
Oh, Charity, &c.
Being four miles from Town, I stopt a horse that had run away with a man,
when it seem’d that they must be dash’d to pieces,
Though several kind people were following him with all their might — but
such following a horse his speed increases; —
I held the horse while he went to recruit his strength; and I meant to ride home, of course;
But the crowd came up and took me up — for it turned out the man had run away with the horse.
Oh, Charity, &c.
I watch’d last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs, for it’s a positive fact,
That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforc’d against everybody under Mr. Martin’s Act;
But I couldn’t catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or on the
ears, or over the head;
And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five weeks of ten
swell’d fingers in bed.
Oh, Charity, &c.
Well, I’ve utterly done with Charity, though I us’d so to preach about its finest fount;
Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but I can’t turn it to any account —
It goes so the very reverse way — even if one chirrups it up with a dust of piety;
That henceforth let it be understood, I take my name entirely out of the List
of the Subscribers to the Humane Society.
Oh, Charity, &c.
A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
‘If th’ affairs of this world did not make us so sad,
’Twould be easy enough to be merry.’ — Old Song.
There is nothing but plague in this house!
There’s the turbot is stole by the cat,
The Newfoundland has ate up the grouse,
And the haunch has been gnaw’d by a rat!
It’s the day of all days when I wish’d
That our friends should enjoy our good cheer;
Mr. Wiggins — our dinner is dish’d,
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Mr. Rudge has not called, but he will,
For his rates, church, and highway, and poor; —
And the butcher has brought in his
bill — Twice as much as the quarter before.
Little Charles is come home with the mumps,
And Matilda with measles, I fear;
And I’ve taken two sov’reigns like dumps —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Your poor brother is in the Gazette,
And your banker is off to New York;
Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt,
And the ‘Wiggins’ has foundered near Cork; —
Mr. Merrington’s bill has come back;
You are chosen to serve overseer;
The new wall is beginning to crack —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
The best dinner-set’s fall’n to the ground;
The militia’s called out, and you’re drawn;
Not a piece of our plate can be found,
But there’s marks of men’s feet on the lawn;
Two anonymous letters have come,
That declare you shall die like a. Weare;
And it may — or may not — be a hum —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
The old lawsuit with Levy is lost;
You are fined for not cleansing the street;
And the water-pipe’s burst with the frost,
And the roof lets the rain in and sleet.
Your old tenant at seventy-four
Has gone off in the night, with his gear,
And has taken the key of the door —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
There’s the ‘Sun ‘and the ‘Phoenix ‘to pay,
For the chimney has blaz’d like Old Nick;
The new gig has been jamm’d by a dray,
And the old horse has taken to kick.
We have hardly a bushel of small,
And now coal is extravagant dear;
Your greatcoat is stole out of the hall —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
The whole green-house is smash’d by the hail,
And the plants have all died in the night; —
The magnolia’s blown down by the gale,
And the chimney looks far from upright;
And — the deuce take the man from the shop,
That hung up the new glass chandelier! —
It has come, in the end, to one drop,
But I wish you a happy New Year!
There’s misfortune wherever we dodge —
It’s the same in the country and town;
There’s the porter has burn’d down his lodge,
While he went off to smoke at the Crown.
The fat butler makes free with your wine,
And the footman has drunk the strong beer,
And the coachman can’t walk in a line,
But I wish you a happy New Year!
I have doubts if your clerk is correct —
There are hints of a mistress at Kew,
And some day he’ll abscond, I expect;
Mr. Brown has built out your back view;
The new housemaid’s the greatest of flirts —
She has men in the house, that is clear; —
And the laundress has pawn’d all your shirts,
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Your’ Account of a Visit to Rome,’
Not a critic on earth seems to laud,
And old Huggins is lately come home,
And will swear that your Claude isn’t Claude;
Your election is far from secure,
Though it’s likely to cost very dear;
You’ve come out in a caricature —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
You’ve been christen’d an ass in the Times,
And the Chronicle calls you a fool;
And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes,
Ha
s engaged the next house for a school;
And the play-ground will run by the bow’r
That you took so much trouble to rear —
We shall never have one quiet hour —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
Little John will not take to his book,
He’s come home black and blue from the cane; —
There’s your uncle is courting his cook,
And your mother has married again!
Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife
And against them you’ll have to appear;
If they’re hung you’ll be wretched for life —
But I wish you a happy New Year!
ODE TO MISS KELLY
ON HER OPENING THE STRAND THEATRE
O Betty — I beg pardon — Fanny K.!
(I was just thinking of your Betty Finnikin) —
Permit me thus to say,
In quite a friendly way —
I like your theatre, though but a minikin;
For tho’ small stages Kean dislikes to spout on,
Renounce me! if I don’t agree with Dowton,
The Minors are the Passions’ proper schools.
For me, I never can
Find wisdom in the plan —
That keeps large reservoirs for little Pooles.
I like your boxes where the audience sit
A family circle; and your little pit;
I like your little stage, where you discuss
Your pleasant bill of fare,
And show us passengers so rich and rare,
Your little stage seems quite an omnibus.
I like exceedingly your Parthian dame,
Dimly remembering dramatic codgers,
The ghost of Memory — the shade of Fame! —
Lord! what a housekeeper for Mr. Rogers!
I like your Savage, of a one-horse power;
And Terence, done in Irish from the Latin;
And Sally — quite a kitchen-garden flower;
And Mrs. Drake, serene in sky-blue satin!
I like your Girl as speechless as a mummy —
It shows you can play dummy! —
I like your Boy, deprived of every gleam
Of light for ever — a benighted being!
And really think — though Irish it may seem —
Your blindness is worth seeing.
I like your Governess; and there’s a striking
Tale of Two Brothers, that sets tears a-flowing —
But I’m not going
All through the bill to tell you of my liking.
Suffice it, Fanny Kelly! with your art
So much in love, like others I have grown.
I really mean myself to take a part
In ‘Free and Easy’ — at my own bespeak —
And shall three times a week
Drop in and make your pretty house my own!
ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.
‘At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering with his bill.’ — Selby
‘The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with green.’ — Bewick.
O ANDREW FAIRSERVICE, but I beg pardon,
You never labour’d in Di Vernon’s garden,
On curly kale and cabbages intent,
Andrew Church service was the thing I meant,
You are a Christian — I would be the same,
Although we differ, and I’ll tell you why,
Not meaning to make game,
I do not like my Church so very High!
When people talk, as talk they will,
About your bill,
They say, among their other jibes and small jeers,
That, if you had your way,
You’d make the seventh day
As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers.
Talk of converting Blacks —
By your attacks,
You make a thing so horrible of one day,
Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy,
Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday,
Than your Man Sunday!
So poor men speak,
Who, once a week,
P’rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers,
Can snatch a glance of Nature’s kinder bowers,
And revel in a bloom
That is not of the loom,
Making the earth, the streams, the skies, the trees,
A Chapel of Ease.
Whereas, as you would plan it,
Wall’d in with hard Scotch granite,
People all day should look to their behaviours,
But though there be, as Shakspeare owns,
‘Sermons in stones,’
Zounds! Would you have us work at them like paviours?
Spontaneous is pure devotion’s fire;
And in a green wood many a soul has built
A new Church, with a fir-tree for its spire,
Where Sin has prayed for peace, and wept for guilt,
Better than if an architect the plan drew;
We know of old how medicines were back’d,
But true Religion needs not to be quack’d
By an Un-merry Andrew!
Suppose a poor town-weary sallow elf
At Primrose-hill would renovate himself,
Or drink (and no great harm)
Milk genuine at Chalk Farm,
The innocent intention who would baulk,
And drive him back into St. Bennet Fink?
For my part, for my life, I cannot think
A walk on Sunday is ‘the Devil’s Walk.’
But there’s a sect of Deists, and their creed
Is D — ing other people to be d — d,
Yea, all that are not of their saintly level,
They make a pious point
To send, with an ‘aroint,’
Down to that great Fillhellenist, the Devil.
To such, a ramble by the River Lea,
Is really treading on the ‘Banks of D — .’
Go down to Margate, wisest of law-makers,
And say unto the sea, as Canute did,
(Of course the sea will do as it is bid,)
‘This is the Sabbath — let there be no Breakers!’
Seek London’s Bishop, on some Sunday morn,
And try him with your tenets to inoculate,
Abuse his fine souchong, and say in scorn,
‘This is not Churchman’s Chocolate!’
Or, seek Dissenters at their mid-day meal,
And read them from your Sabbath Bill some passages,
And while they eat their mutton, beef, and veal,
Shout out with holy zeal,
‘These are not Chappel’s sassages!’
Suppose your Act should act up to your will,
Yet how will it appear to Mrs. Grundy,
To hear you saying of this pious bill,
‘It works well — on a Sunday!’
To knock down apple-stalls is now too late,
Except to starve some poor old harmless madam; —
Yon might have done some good, and chang’d our fate,
Could you have upset that, which ruined Adam!
’Tis useless to prescribe salt-cod and eggs,
Or lay post-horses under legal fetters,
While Tattersall’s on Sunday stirs its Legs,
Folks look for good examples from their Betters!
Consider, Acts of Parliament may bind
A man to go where Irvings are discoursing —
But as for forcing ‘proper frames of mind,’
Minds are not framed, like melons, for such forcing
Remember, as a Scottish legislator,
The Scotch Kirk always has a. Moderator;
Meaning one need not ever be sojourning —
In a long Sermon Lane without a turning.
Such grave old maids as Portia and Zenobia
May like discourses with a skein of threads,
And love a le
cture for its many heads,
But as for me, I have the Hydra-phobia.
Religion one should never overdo:
Right glad I am no minister you be,
For you would say your service, sir, to me,
Till I should say, ‘My service, sir, to you.’
Six days made all that is, you know, and then —
Came that of rest — by holy ordination,
As if to hint unto the sons of men,
After creation should come re-creation.
Read right this text, and do not further search
To make a Sunday Workhouse of the Church.
ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P.
ON THE REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF DRUNKENNESS
O, Mr. Buckingham, if I may take
The liberty with you and your Committee,
Some observations I intend to make,
I hope will prove both pertinent and pretty.
On Drunkenness you’ve held a special court,
But is consistency, I ask, your forte,
When after (I must say) much Temperance swaggering,
You issue a Report,
That’s staggering!
Of course you labour’d without drop or sup,
Yet certain parts of that Report to read,
Some men might think indeed,
A corkscrew, not a pen, had drawn it up.
For instance, was it quite a sober plan
On such a theme as drunkenness to trouble
A poor old man,
Who could not e’en see single, much less double.
Blind some six years,
As it appears,
He gives in evidence, and you receive it,
A flaming picture of a flaming palace,
Where gin-admirers sipped the chalice
And then, (the banter is not bad,)
Thinks fit to add,
You really should have seen it to believe it.
That he could see such sights I must deny,
Unless he borrowed Betty Martin’s eye.
A man that is himself walks in a line,
One, not himself, goes serpentine,
And as he rambles —
In crablike scrambles,
The while his body works in curves,
His intellect as surely swerves,
And some such argument as this he utters,
‘While men get cut we must have cutters.
