Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works
Page 74
In wine let a lover remember his jewel
And pledge her in bumpers fill’d brimming and oft; —
But we can distinguish the kind from the cruel,
And toast them in water, the hard or the soft.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Some cross’d in their passion can never o’erlook it,
But take to a pistol, a knife, or a beam;
Whilst temperate swains are enabled to brook it
By help of a little meandering stream.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
Should fortune diminish our cash’s sum-total,
Deranging our wits and our private affairs,
Though some in such cases would fly to the bottle,
There’s nothing like water for drowning our cares.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
See drinkers of water, their wits never lacking,
Direct as a railroad and smooth in their gaits;
But look at the bibbers of wine, they go tacking,
Like ships that have met a foul wind in the straights.
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
A fig then for Burgundy, Claret, or Mountain,
A few scanty glasses must limit your wish,
But he’s the true toper that goes to the fountain,
The drinker that verily ‘drinks like a fish!’
Then hey for a bucket, &c.
DOMESTIC POEMS
‘It’s hame, hame, hame.’ — A. Cunningham. ‘There’s no place like home.’ — Clari.
I
HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS
O Kate! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife
When I look back at Hymen’s dear day,
Not a lovelier bride ever chang’d to a wife,
Though you’re now so old, wizen’d, and grey!
Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate!
But as liquid as stars in a pool;
Though now they’re so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,
Just like gooseberries boil’d for a fool!
That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair;
Though it’s wrinkled so crookedly now,
As if Time, when those furrows were made by the share,
Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!
Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,
When a Venus demanded their skill;
Though now it can hardly be reckon’d a nose,
But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!
Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,
Such a nectar there hung on each lip;
Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,
Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!
Your chin, it was one of Love’s favourite haunts,
From its dimple he could not get loose;
Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants,
Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!
How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,
With their ringlets of auburn so deep!
Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,
By a bramble torn off from a sheep!
That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace,
While in whiteness it vied with your arms;
Though now a grave ‘kerchief you properly place,
To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!
Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight,
Though it now has two twists from upright —
But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!
Though you be such a perfect old fright!
II
The sun was slumbering in the West,
My daily labours past;
On Anna’s soft and gentle breast
My head reclined at last; —
The darkness clos’d around, so dear
To fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmur’d at my ear,
‘My love, we’re out of coals! —
‘That Mister Bond has call’d again,
Insisting on his rent; —
And all the Todds are coming up
To see us, out of Kent; —
I quite forgot to tell you John
Has had a tipsy fall; —
I’m sure there’s something going on
With that vile Mary Hall! —
‘Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,
And I have bought the rest —
Of course, if we go out of town,
Southend will be the best. —
I really think the Jones’s house
Would be the thing for us; —
I think I told you, Mrs. Pope
Has parted with her nus ——
‘Cook, by the way, came up to-day
To bid me suit myself —
And what d’ye think? the rats have gnawed
The victuals on the shelf. —
And, lord! there’s such a letter come,
Inviting you to fight!
Of course you don’t intend to go —
God bless you, dear, good-night!’
III
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS
AND FIVE MONTHS
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear) —
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouch’d by sorrow and unsoil’d by sin —
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air —
(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair! )
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents — (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub — but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail! )
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny —
(Another tumble! — that’s his precious nose!)
Thy father’s pride and hope!
(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint —
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best!)
Little epitome of man!
(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)
Touch’d with the beauteous tints of dawning life —
(He’s got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick —
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistledown,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk —
(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy, and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish t
hat window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove —
(I’ll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write, unless he’s sent above!)
IV
A SERENADE
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!’
Thus I heard a father cry,
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids or open mine!
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
What the devil makes him cry?
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Still he stares — I wonder why?
Why are not the sons of earth
Blind, like puppies, from the birth?
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!’
Thus I heard the father cry;
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Mary, you must come and try! —
Hush, oh, hush, for mercy’s sake —
The more I sing, the more you wake!
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Fie, you little creature, fie; —
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Is no poppy-syrup nigh?
Give him some, or give him all,
I am nodding to his fall!
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Two such nights, and I shall die!
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
He’ll be bruised, and so shall I,
How can I from bedposts keep,
When I’m walking in my sleep?
‘Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep his very looks deny —
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Nature soon will stupify —
My nerves relax, my eyes grow dim —
Who’s that fallen — me or him?’
JOHN JONES
A PATHETIC BALLAD
‘I saw the iron enter into his soul.’ — Sterne.
John Jones he was a builder’s clerk,
On ninety pounds a year,
Before his head was engine-turn’d
To be an engineer!
For, finding that the iron roads
Were quite the public tale,
Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart
Was set upon a rail.
But oh! his schemes all ended ill,
As schemes must come to nought
With men who try to make short cuts
When cut with something short.
His altitudes he did not take
Like any other elf;
But first a spirit-level took
That levell’d him himself.
Then getting up, from left to right
So many tacks he made,
The ground he meant to go upon
Got very well survey’d. —
How crows may fly he did not care
A single fig to know; —
He wish’d to make an iron road,
And not an iron crow:
So, going to the Rose and Crown
To cut his studies short,
The nearest way from pint to pint,
He found was through a quart.
According to this rule he plann’d
His railway o’er a cup; —
But when he came to lay it down,
No soul would take it up!
Alas! not his the wily arts
Of men as shrewd as rats,
Who out of one sole level make
A precious lot of flats!
In vain from Z to crooked S
His devious line he show’d;
Directors even seemed to wish
For some directer road. —
The writers of the public press
All sneered at his design;
And penny-a-liners wouldn’t give
A penny for his line!
Yet still he urged his darling scheme
In spite of all the fates;
Until at last his zigzag ways
Quite brought him into straits.
His money gone, of course he sank
In debt from day to day —
His way would not pay him, and so
He could not pay his way.
Said he, ‘All parties run me down,
How bitter is my cup!
My landlord is the only man
That ever runs me up!
‘And he begins to talk of scores,
And will not draw a cork’; —
And then he rail’d at Fortune, since
He could not rail at York! —
The morrow, in a fatal noose
They found him, hanging fast;
This sentence scribbled on the wall,
‘I’ve got my line at last!’
Twelve men upon the body sate,
And thus, on oath, did say,
‘We find he got his gruel ‘cause
He couldn ‘t have his way!’
ODE TO MESSRS. GREEN, HOLLOND, AND MONCK MASON
ON THEIR LATE BALLOON EXPEDITION
‘Here we go up, up, up, and there we go down, down, down.’ — Old Ballad.
O Lofty-minded men!
Almost beyond the pitch of my goose pen!
And most inflated words!
Delicate Ariels! ethereals! — birds
Of passage! fliers! angels without wings!
Fortunate rivals of Icarian darings!
Male-witches, without broomsticks, taking airings!
Kites — without strings!
Volatile spirits! light mercurial humours!
O give us soon your sky adventures truly,
With full particulars, correcting duly
All flying rumours!
Two-legg’d high-fliers!
What upper-stories you must have to tell!
And nobody can contradict you well,
Or call you liars!
Your Region of Romance will many covet;
Besides that, you may scribble what you will,
And this great luck will wait upon you, still
All criticism, you will be above it!
Write, then, Messrs. Monck Mason, Hollond, Green!
And tell us all you have, or haven’t seen! —
(’Twas kind, when the balloon went out of town,
To take Monck Mason up and set him down,
For when a gentleman is at a shift —
For carriage — talk of carts and gigs, and coaches!
Nothing to a balloon approaches,
For giving one a lift!)
O say, when Mr. Frederick Gye
Seem’d but a speck — a mote — in friendship’s eye,
Did any tongue confess a sort of dryness
Seeming the soaring rashness to rebuke;
Or did each feel himself, like Brunswick’s Duke,
A most serene Highness!
Say, as you cross’d the Channel,
Well clothed in well air’d linen and warm flannel,
How did your company, perceived afar,
Affect the tar?
Methinks I see him cock his weather eye
Against the sky,
Turning his ruminating quid full oft,
With wonder sudden taken all aback —
‘My eyes!’ says he,
‘I’m blow’d if there arn’t three!
Three little Cherubs smiling up aloft,
A-watching for poor Jack!
Of course, at such a height, the ocean
Affected no one by its motion —
But did internal comfort dwell with each.
Quiet and ease each comfortable skin in? —
Or did brown Hollond of a sudden bleach
As white as Irish linen?
Changing his native hue,
Did Green look blue? —
In short was any air-sick? P’rhaps Monck Mason
Was forc’d to have an air-pump in a bason?
Say, with what sport, or pleasure,
Might you fill up your lofty leisure?
Like Scotch
man, at High jinks?
‘(High-spy was an appropriate game methinks) —
Or cards — but playing very high; —
Or skying coppers, almost to the sky; —
Or did you listen, the first mortal ears
That ever drank the music of the spheres? —
Or might you into vocal music get,
A trio — highly set?
Or, as the altitude so well allow’d,
Perchance, you ‘blew a cloud.’
Say, did you find the air
Give you an appetite up there? —
Your cold provisions — were you glad to meet ‘em!
Or did you find your victuals all so high,
Or blown so by your fly —
You couldn’t eat ‘em?
Of course you took some wine to sup,
Although the circumstance has not been stated;
I envy you the effervescing cup!
Wasn’t your champagne well up?
Nay, you, yourselves, a little elevated?
Then, for your tea and breakfast, say,
Was it not something delicately new,
To get sky-blue
Right genuine from the real milky way?
Of course, you all agreed,
Whate’er your conversation was about,
Like friends indeed,
And faith! not without need,
’Twas such an awkward place for falling-out!
Say, after your gastronomy,
Kept you a watch all night,
Marking the planets bright,
Like three more Airys, studying astronomy;
Or near the midnight chime,
Did someone haul his nightcap on his head,
Hold out his mounted watch, and say ‘high time
To go to bed?’
Didn’t your coming scare
The sober Germans, until every cap
Rose lifted by a frighten’d fell of hair;