Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works
Page 85
And only want a Counter Revolution.
’Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure,
’Tis not Lord Melbourne’s counsel to the throne,
’Tis not this Bill, or that gives us displeasure,
The measures we dislike are all our own.
The Cash Law the ‘Great Western’ loves to name,
The tone our foreign policy pervading;
The Corn Laws — none of these we care to blame,
Our evils we refer to over-trading. —
By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn;
We reverence the Church — but hang the cloth!
We love her ministers — but curse the lawn!
We have, alas! too much to do with both!
We love the sex: — to serve them is a bliss!
We trust they find us civil, never surly;
All that we hope of female friends is this,
That their last linen may be wanted early.
Ah! who can tell the miseries of men
That serve the very cheapest shops in town? —
Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,
Knock’d up by ladies beating of ‘em down!
But has not Hamlet his opinion given —
O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers’ servants!
‘That custom is’ — say custom after seven —
‘More honour’d in the breach than the observance.’
O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,
O’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves;
Torment us all until the seventh chime,
But let us have the remnant to ourselves!
We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,
And not remain in ignorance incurable; —
To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,
And other fabrics that have proved so durable.
We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,
And not to go bewilder’d to our beds;
With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,
And pins and needles running in our heads!
For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,
Selling from mom till night for cash or credit;
Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,
Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.
Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,
We often think, when we are dull and vapoury,
The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,
Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.
LORD DURHAM’S RETURN
‘On revient toujours.’ — French Song.
‘And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?’
There’s nae Luck about the House.
‘The Inconstant is come!’
It’s in every man’s mouth;
From the East to the West,
From the North to the South;
With a flag at her head,
And a flag at her stern;
Whilst the Telegraph hints
At Lord Durham’s return.
Turn wherever you will,
It’s the great talk and small;
Going up to Cornhill,
Going down to Whitehall;
If you ask for the news,
It’s the first you will learn,
And the last you will lose,
My Lord Durham’s return.
The fat pig in the sty,
And the ox in the stall,
The old dog at the door,
And the cat in the wall;
The wild bird in the bush,
And the hare in the fern,
All appear to have heard
Of Lord Durham’s return.
It has flown all abroad,
It is known to goose-pens,
It is bray’d by the ass,
It is cackled by hens:
The Pintadas, indeed,
Make it quite their concern,
All exclaiming, ‘Come back!’
At Lord Durham’s return.
It’s the text over wine,
And the talk after tea;
All are singing one tune,
Though not set in one key.
E’en the Barbers unite
Other gossip to spurn,
Whilst they lather away
At Lord Durham’s return.
All the Painters leave off,
And the Carpenters go,
And the Tailor above
Joins the Cobbler below,
In whole gallons of beer
To expend what they earn
While discussing one pint,
My Lord Durham’s return.
It is timed in the Times,
With the News has a run,
Goes the round of the Globe,
And is writ in the Sun,
Like the Warren on walls,
Fancy seems to discern,
In great letters of chalk,
‘Try Lord Durham’s return!’
Not a murder comes out;
The reporters repine;
And a hanging is scarce
Worth a penny a line.
If a Ghost reappeared
With his funeral urn,
He’d be thrown in the shade
By Lord Durham’s return.
No arrival could raise
Such a fever in town;
There’s a talk about ’Change
Of the Stocks going down;
But the Butter gets up
Just as if in the churn,
It forgot it should come
In Lord Durham’s return.
The most silent are loud;
The most sleepy awake;
Very odd that one man
Such a bustle can make!
But the schools all break up,
And both Houses adjourn,
To debate more at ease
On Lord Durham’s return.
Is he well? is he ill?
Is he cheerful or sad?
Has he spoken his mind
Of the breeze that he had?
It was rather too soon
With home-sickness to yearn;
There will something come yet
Of Lord Durham’s return.
There’s a sound in the wind
Since that ship is come home;
There are signs in the air
Like the omens of Rome;
And the lamps in the street,
And the stars as they burn,
Seem to give a flare up
At Lord Durham’s return!
VERSES MISTAKEN FOR AN INCENDIARY SONG
Come, all conflagrating fellows,
Let us have a glorious rig:
Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows
Burn me, but I’ll burn my wig!
Christmas time is all before us:
Burn all puddings, north and south.
Burn the Turkey — Burn the Devil!
Burn snap-dragon! burn your mouth!
Burn the coals! they’re up at sixty!
Burn Burn’s Justice — burn Old Coke.
Burn the chestnuts! Burn the shovel!
Burn a fire, and burn the smoke!
Burn burnt almonds. Burn burnt brandy.
Let all burnings have a turn.
Burn Chabert, the Salamander,
Burn the man that wouldn’t burn!
Burn the old year ont, don’t ring it;
Burn the one that must begin.
Burn Lang Syne; and, whilst you’re burning,
Burn the burn he paidled in.
Burn the boxing! Burn the Beadle!
Burn the baker! Burn his man!
Burn the butcher — Burn the dustman,
Burn the sweeper, if you can!
Burn the Postman! burn the postage,
Burn the knocker — burn the bell!
Burn the folks that come for money!
Burn the bills — and burn ‘
em well.
Burn the Parish! Burn the rating!
Burn all taxes in a mass.
Burn the Paving! Burn the Lighting!
Burn the burners! Burn the gas!
Burn all candles, white or yellow —
Burn for war, and not for peace;
Burn the Czar of all the Tallow!
Burn the King of all the Greece!
Burn all canters — burn in Smithfield.
Burn Tea-Total hum and bug.
Burn his kettle, burn his water,
Burn his muffin, burn his mug! —
Burn the breeks of meddling vicars,
Picking holes in Anna’s Urns!
Burn all Steers’s Opodeldoc,
Just for being good for burns.
Burn all Swindlers! Bum Asphalturn!
Burn the money-lenders down —
Burn all schemes that burn one’s fingers!
Bum the Cheapest House in town!
Burn all bores and boring topics;
Bum Brunei — aye, in his hole! —
Burn all subjects that are Irish!
Burn the niggers black as coal!
Burn all Boz’s imitators!
Burn all tales without a head!
Burn a candle near the curtain!
Burn your Bums, and burn your bed!
Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted,
Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims —
Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen!
Burn all sorts of burning shames!
Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories!
Bum all parties, great and small!
Burn that everlasting Poynder —
Burn his Suttees once for all!
Burn the fop that burns tobacco.
Burn a Critic that condemns. —
Burn Lucifer and all his matches!
Burn the fool that burns the Thames!
Burn all burning agitators —
Burn all torch-parading elves! —
And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches,
If they haven’t burnt themselves.
THE GREEN MAN
Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man
As ever lived — at least at number Four,
In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown’s first floor,
At fifty pounds, or thereabouts, per ann.
The Lady reckon’d him her best of lodgers,
His rent so punctually paid each quarter,
He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers —
Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers —
Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter,
Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable —
Still on one failing tenderly to touch,
The Gentleman did like a drop too much,
(Tho’ there are many such)
And took more Port than was exactly portable.
In fact, to put the cap upon the nipple,
And try the charge, Tom certainly did tipple.
He thought the motto was but sorry stuff —
On Cribb’s Prize Cup — Yes, wrong in ev’ry letter —
That ‘D — d be he who first cries Hold Enough! ‘
The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.
And so to set example in the eyes
Of Fancy’s lads, and give a broadish hint to them,
All his cups were of such ample size
That he got into them.
Once in the company of merry mates,
In spite of Temperance’s ifs and buts,
So sure as Eating is set off with plates,
His Drinking always was bound up with cuts!
Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels
Bring very sad catastrophes about;
Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,
Not to forget the Gout.
Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim
To grow to Strasburg’s regulation size,
As if for those hepatical goose pies —
Or out of depth the head begins to swim —
Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!
’Twas Christmas — he had drunk the night before,
Like Baxter, who so ‘went beyond his last’ —
One bottle more, and then one bottle more,
Till oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass’d!
And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,
With many a circumbendibus to spare,
For instance, twice round Finsbury Square
To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way.
Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter,
And all the nerves — (and sparrows) — in a twitter,
Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:
The hands, o’er all, are members that make motions,
A sort of wavering, just like the ocean’s,
Which has its swell, too, when it’s getting up —
An awkward circumstance enough for elves
Who shave themselves;
And Simpson just was ready to go thro’ it,
When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass —
He jump’d — and who alive would fail to do it? —
To see, however it had come to pass,
One section of his face as green as grass!
In vain each eager wipe,
With soap — without — wet — hot or cold — or dry,
Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye
One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!
Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,
Quaking, and quite absorb’d in a deep study,
But verdant and not brown,
What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?
Indeed it was a very novel case,
By way of penalty for being jolly,
To have that evergreen stuck in his face,
Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.
‘All claret marks,’ — thought he — Tom knew his forte —
‘Are red — this colour cannot come from Port!’
One thing was plain; with such a face as his,
’Twas quite impossible to ever greet
Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet,
Altho”twas such a parti-coloured phiz!
As for the public, fancy Sarcy, Ned,
The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head,
With ‘Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please —
Unless it comes too high —
Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy
The t’other half, Sir, of that ‘ere green cheese?’
His mind recoil’d — so he tied up his head,
As with a raging tooth, and took to bed;
Of course with feelings far from the serene,
For all his future prospects seemed to be,
To match his customary tea,
Black, mixt with green.
Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown
Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down,
And sent the maid up stairs to learn the why;
To whom poor Simpson, half delirious,
Returned an answer so mysterious
That curiosity began to fry;
The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch
By peeping in upon the patient’s bed,
Reported a most bloody, tied-up head,
Got over-night of course—’ Harm watch, harm catch,’
From Watchmen in a boxing-match.
So, liberty or not,
Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in
A suicidal coffin —
The dame ran up as fast as she could trot;
Appearance, ‘fiddle-sticks!’ should not deter
From going to the bed,
And looking at the head:
‘La! Mister S — , he need not care for her!
A married woman that had had
Nine boys and gals, and none had turned
out bad —
Her own dear late would come home late at night,
And liquor always got him in a fight.
She’d been in hospitals — she wouldn’t faint
At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep;
She knew what’s good for bruises and what ain’t —
Turlington’s Drops she made a pint to keep.
Cases she’d seen beneath the surgent’s hand —
Such skulls japann’d — she meant to say trepann’d!
Poor wretches! you would think they’d been in battle,
And hadn’t hours to live,
From tearing horses’ kicks or Smithfield cattle,
Shamefully over-driv! —
Heads forced to have a silver plate atop,
To get the brains to stop.
At imputations of the legs she’d been,
And neither screech’d nor cried—’
Hereat she pluck’d the white cravat aside,
And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen —
‘Preserve us all! He’s going to gangrene!’
Alas! through Simpson’s brain
Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain;
It tallied truly with his own misgiving,
And brought a groan,
To move a heart of stone —
A sort of farewell to the land of living!
And as the case was imminent and urgent,
He did not make a shadow of objection
To Mrs. B.’s proposal for a ‘surgent,’
But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection,
While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief
Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.
Swift flew the summons, it was life or death!
And in as short a time as he could race it,
Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath.
To try his Latin charms against Hic Jacct.
He took a seat beside the patient’s bed,
Saw tongue — felt pulse — examined the bad cheek,
Poked, strok’d, pinch’d, kneaded it — hemm’d — shook his head —
Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek,
(Thinking, it seem’d, in Greek,)