Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works
Page 84
Till, watching the fall
Of some soap-bubble ball,
They tumble themselves with a terrible sprawl.
Meanwhile, from its height
Stooping downward in flight,
The Phenomenon came more distinctly in sight:
Still bigger and bigger,
And strike me a nigger
Unfreed, if there was not a live human figure! —
Yes, plain to be seen,
Underneath the machine,
There dangled a mortal — some swore it was Green;
Some Mason could spy;
Others named Mr. Gye;
Or Hollond, compell’d by the Belgians to fly.
’Twas Graham the flighty,
Whom the Duke high and mighty
Resign’d to take care of his own lignum-vitæ; —
’Twas Hampton, whose whim
Was in Cloudland to swim,
Till e’en Little Hampton looked little to him!
But all were at fault;
From the heavenly vault
The falling balloon came at last to a halt;
And bounce! with the jar
Of descending so far,
An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car!
At first with the jolt
All his wits made a bolt,
As if he’d been flung by a mettlesome colt;
And while in his faint,
To avoid all complaint,
The muse shall endeavour his portrait to paint.
The face of this elf,
Round as platter of delf,
Was pale as if only a cast of itself:
His head had a rare
Fleece of silvery hair, Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair.
His eyes they were odd,
Like the eyes of a cod,
And gave him the look of a watery God.
His nose was a snub;
Under which, for his grub,
Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub.
His person was small,
Without figure at all,
A plump little body as round as a ball:
With two little fins,
And a couple of pins,
With what has been christened a bow in the shins.
His dress it was new,
A full suit of sky-blue —
With bright silver buckles in each little shoe —
Thus painted complete,
From his head to his feet,
Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins’s wheat.
Fine text for the crowd!
Who disputed aloud —
What sort of a creature had dropp’d from the cloud —
‘He’s come from o’er seas,
He’s a Cochin Chinese —
By jingo! he’s one of the wild Cherokees!’
‘Don’t nobody know?’
‘He’s a young Esquimaux,
Turn’d white like the hares by the
Arctical snow.’
‘Some angel, my dear,
Sent from some upper spear
For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!
Meanwhile, with a sigh,
Having open’d one eye,
The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by;
And finding his tongue,
Thus he said, or he sung,
‘Mi criky be biggamy kickery bung!’
‘Lord! what does he speak?’
‘It’s Dog-Latin — it’s Greek!’
‘It’s some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!’
‘It’s no like the Scotch,’
Said a Scot on the watch,
‘Phoo! it’s nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!’
‘It’s not parly voo,’
Cried a schoolboy or two,
‘Nor Hebrew at all,’ said a wandering Jew.
Some held it was sprung
From the Irvingite tongue,
The same that is used by a child very young.
Some guess’d it high Dutch,
Others thought it had much
In sound of the true Hoky-poky-ish touch;
But none could be poz,
What the Dickins! (not Boz)
No mortal could tell what the Dickins it was!
When who should come pat,
In a moment like that,
But Bowring, to see what the people were at —
A Doctor well able,
Without any fable,
To talk and translate all the babble of Babel. —
So just drawing near,
With a vigilant ear,
That took ev’ry syllable in, very clear,
Before one could sip
Up a tumbler of flip,
He knew the whole tongue, from the root to the tip!
Then stretching his hand,
As you see Daniel stand,
In the Feast of Belshazzar, that picture so grand!
Without more delay,
In the Hamilton way
He English’d whatever the Elf had to say.
‘Krak kraziboo ban,
I’m the Lunatick Man,
Confined in the Moon since creation began —
Sit muggy bigog,
Whom except in a fog
You see with a Lanthorn, a Bush, and a Dog.
‘Lang sinery lear,
For this many a year,
I’ve longed to drop in at your own little sphere,
Och, pad-mad aroon
Till one fine afternoon,
I found that Wind-Coach on the horns of the Moon.
‘Cush quackery go,
But, besides you must know,
I’d heard of a profiting Prophet below;
Big botherum blether,
Who pretended to gather
The tricks that the Moon meant to
play with the weather.
‘So Crismus an crash,
Being shortish of cash,
I thought I’d a right to partake of the hash —
Slik mizzle an smak,
So I’m come with a pack,
To sell to the trade, of My Own
Almanack.
‘Fiz bobbery pershal
Besides aims commercial,
Much wishing to honour my friend
Sir John Herschel,
Cum puddin and tame,
It’s inscribed to his name,
Which is now at the full in celestial fame.
‘Wept wepton wish wept,
Pray this Copy accept!’ —
But here on the Stranger some Kidnappers leapt:
For why? a shrewd man
Had devis’d a sly plan
The Wonder to grab for a show Caravan.
So plotted, so done —
With a fight as in fun,
While mock pugilistical rounds were begun,
A knave who could box,
And give right and left knocks,
Caught hold of the Prize by his silvery locks.
And hard he had fared,
But the people were scared
By what the Interpreter roundly declared:
‘You ignorant Turks!
You will be your own Burkes —
He holds all the keys of the lunary works!
‘You’d best let him go —
If you keep him below,
The Moon will not change, and the tides will not flow;
He left her at full,
And with such a long pull,
Zounds! ev’ry man Jack will run mad like a bull!’
So awful a threat
Took effect on the set;
The fight, tho’, was more than their guest could forget;
So taking a jump,
In the car he came plump,
And threw all the ballast right out in a lump.
Up soar’d the machine,
With its yellow and green;
But still the pale face of the Creature was seen,
Who cried from the car,
‘Dam in zooman bi gar!’
That is, ‘What a sad set of villains you are!’
Howbeit, at some height,
He threw down quite a flight
Of Almanacks wishing to set us all right —
And, thanks to the boon,
We shall see very soon
-If Murphy knows most, or the Man in the Moon!
THE DOVES AND THE CROWS
Come all ye sable little girls and boys,
Ye coal-black Brothers — Sooty Sisters, come!
With kitty-katties make a joyful noise;
With snaky-snekies, and the Eboe drum!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Play, Sambo, play, and Obadiah, groan!
Ye vocal Blackbirds, bring your native pipes,
Your own Moor’s Melodies, ye niggers, bring;
To celebrate the fall of chains and stripes,
Sing ‘Possum up a gum-tree,’ roar and sing! —
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Chaunt, Sambo, chaunt, and Obadiah, groan!
Bring all your woolly piccaninnies dear —
Bring John Canoe and all his jolly gang:
Stretch ev’ry blubber-mouth from ear to ear,
And let the driver in his whip go hang!
From this day forth your freedom is your own;
Grin, Sambo, grin, and Obadiah, groan!
Your working garb indignantly renounce;
Discard your slops in honour of the day —
Come all in frill, and furbelow, and flounce,
Come all as fine as Chimney Sweeps in May —
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Dress, Sambo, dress, and Obadiah, groan!
Come, join together in the dewy dance,
With melting maids in steamy mazes go;
Humanity delights to see you prance,
Up with your sooty legs and jump Jim Crow —
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Skip, Sambo, skip, and Obadiah, groan! —
Kiss dark Diana on her pouting lips,
And take black Phoebe by her ample waist —
Tell them to-day is Slavery’s eclipse,
And Love and Liberty must be embraced —
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Kiss, Sambo, kiss, and Obadiah, groan!
With bowls of sangaree and toddy come!
Bring lemons, sugar, old Madeira, limes,
Whole tanks and water-barrels full of rum,
To toast the whitest date of modern times —
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Drink, Sambo, drink, and Obadiah, groan!
Talk, all together, talk! both old and young,
Pour out the fulness of the negro heart;
Let loose the now emancipated tongue,
And all your new-born sentiments impart —
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
Spout, Sambo, spout, and Obadiah, groan!
Huzza! for equal rights and equal laws;
The British parliament has doff’d your chain —
Join, join in gratitude your jetty paws,
And swear you never will be slaves again —
From this day forth your freedom is your own
Swear, Sambo, swear, and Obadiah, groan!
THE DOCTOR
A SKETCH
‘Whatever is, is right.’ — Pope.
There once was a Doctor,
(No foe to the proctor,)
A physic-concocter,
Whose dose was so pat,
However it acted,
One speech it extracted,
‘Yes, yes,’ said the doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
And first, all unaisy,
Like woman that’s crazy
In flies Mistress Casey,
‘Do come to poor Pat
The blood’s running faster!
He’s torn off the plaster—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
Anon, with an antic,
Quite strange and romantic,
A woman comes frantic —
‘What could you be at?
My darling dear Aleck,
You’ve sent him oxalic!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
Then in comes another,
Despatch’d by his mother,
A blubbering brother,
Who gives a rat-tat —
‘Oh, poor little sister
Has lick’d off a blister!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
Now home comes the flunkey,
His own powder-monkey,
But dull as a donkey —
With basket and that —
‘The draught for the Squire, Sir,
He chuck’d in the fire, Sir—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
The next is the pompous
Head Beadle, old Bumpus —
‘Lord! here is a rumpus:
That pauper, Old Nat,
In some drunken notion
Has drunk up his lotion—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
At last comes a servant,
In grief very fervent:
‘Alas! Doctor Derwent,
Poor Master is flat!
He’s drawn his last breath, Sir —
That dose was his death, Sir.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor,
‘I meant it for that!’
THE VISION
‘Plague on’t! the last was ill enough,
This cannot but make better proof.’ — Cotton.
As I sate the other night,
Burning of a single light,
All at once a change there came
In the colour of the flame.
Strange it was the blaze to view,
Blue as summer sky is blue:
One! two! three! four! five! six! seven!
Eight! nine! ten! it struck eleven!
Pale as sheet, with stiffen’d hair,
Motionless in elbow chair —
Blood congealing — dead almost —
‘Now,’ thought I, ‘to see a ghost!’
Strange misgiving, true as strange!
In the air there came a change,
And as plain as mortals be,
Lo! a Shape confronted me!
Lines and features I could trace
Like an old familiar face,
Thin and pallid like my own,
In the morning mirror shown.
‘Now,’ he said, and near the grate
Drew a chair for tête-à-tête,
Quite at odds with all decorum,
‘Now, my boys, let’s have a jorum!’
‘Come,’ he cried, ‘old fellow, come,
Where’s the brandy, where’s the rum?
Where’s the kettle — is it hot?
Shall we have some punch, or what?’
‘Feast of reason — flow of soul!
Where’s the sugar, where’s the bowl?
Lemons I will help to squeeze —
Flip, Egg-hot or what you please!’
‘Sir,’ said I, with hectic cough,
Shock of nerves to carry off —
Looking at him very hard,
‘Pray oblige me with a card.’
‘Card,’ said he—’ Phoo — nonsense — stuff!
We’re acquainted well enough —
Still, my name if you desire,
Eighteen Thirty-Eight, Esquire.
‘Ring for supper! where’s the tray?
No great time I have to stay,
One short hour, and
like a May’r,
I must quit the yearly Chair!’
Scarce could I contain my rage —
O’er the retrospective page,
Looking back from date to date,
What I owed to Thirty-Eight.
Sickness here and sickness there,
Pain and sorrow, constant care; —
Fifty-two long weeks to fall,
Nor a trump among them all!
‘Zounds!’ I cried, in quite a huff,
‘Go — I’ve known you long enough.
Seek for supper where you please,
Here you have not bread and cheese.’
‘Nay,’ cried he, ‘were things so ill?
Let me have your pardon still —
What I’ve done to give you pain
I will never do again.’ —
‘As from others, so from you,
Let me have my honours duc;
Soon the parish bells about
Will begin to ring me out.’
‘Ring you out? — With all my heart!’
From my chair I made a start,
Pull’d the bell and gave a shout —
‘Peter, show the Old Year out!
THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS’ PETITION
‘Now’s the time and now’s the hour.’ — Burns.
‘Seven’s the main.’ — Crockford.
Pity the sorrows of a class of men,
Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity;
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,
But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.
Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,
Amongst the clamorous we take our station
A host of Ribbon Men — yet is there not
One piece of Irish in our agitation.
We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,
We venerate our Glorious Constitution; —
We joy King William’s advent should have been,