by Thomas Hood
That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs!
The men? — they fought and gambled at fairs;
And poached — and didn’t respect grey hairs —
Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses;
And broke in houses as well as horses;
Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton;
And would their own Mothers and
Wives for a button. —
But not to repeat the deeds they did,
Backsliding in spite of all moral skid,
If all were true that fell from the tongue
There wasn’t a villager, old or young,
But deserved to be whipt, imprison’d, or hung,
Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries
To publish at Colburn’s, or Longman’s, or Murray’s.
Meanwhile the Trumpet, con amore,
Transmitted each vile diabolical story,
And gave the least whisper of slips and falls
As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul’s,
Which, as all the world knows by practice or print,
Is famous for making the most of a hint.
Not a murmur of shame,
Or buzz of blame,
Not a flying report that flew at a name,
Not a plausible gloss, or significant note,
Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat,
From the beam in the eye to diminutive mote,
But vortex-like that tube of tin
Suck’d the censorious particle in:
And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ
As ever listened to serpent hiss,
Nor took the viperous sound amiss,
On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon!
The Dame, it is true, would mutter ‘Shocking!’
And give her head a sorrowful rocking;
And make a clucking with palate and tongue,
Like the call of Partlet to gather her young,
A sound when human that always proclaims —
At least a thousand pities and shames;
But still the darker the tale of sin,
Like certain folks when calamities burst,
Who find a comfort in ‘hearing the worst’ —
The further she poked the Trumpet in.
Nay, worse, whatever she heard, she spread
East and West, and North and South,
Like the ball which, according to Captain Z,
Went in at his ear and came out at his mouth.
What wonder, between the Horn and the Dame,
Such mischief was made wherever they came,
That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame?
For although it requires such loud discharges,
Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear,
To turn the smallest of table-beer,
A little whisper breathed into the ear
Will sour a temper ‘as sour as varges.’
In fact, such very ill blood there grew,
From this private circulation of stories,
That the nearest neighbours the village through,
Look’d at each other as yellow and blue,
As any electioneering crew
Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories.
Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth,
That ‘whispering tongues can poison Truth;’
Yea — like a dose of Oxalic Acid,
Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid,
And rack dear Love with internal fuel,
Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel,
Sugar of lead to sweeten gruel —
At least such torments began to wring ‘em —
From the very morn
When that mischievous Horn
Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham.
The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs.
And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs,
While feuds arose and family quarrels,
That discomposed the mechanics of morals,
For screws were loose between brother and brother,
While sisters fastened their nails on each other;
Such wrangle, and jangle, and miff, and tiff,
And spar, and jar, and breezes as stiff
As ever upset a friendship, or skiff!
The plighted lovers who used to walk,
Refused to meet, and declined to talk;
And wish’d for two moons to reflect the sun
That they mightn’t look together on one;
While wedded affection ran so low,
That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo,
And instead of the toddle adown the hill,
Hand in hand,
As the song has plann’d,
Scratch’d her penniless out of his will!
In short, to describe what came to pass
In a true, tho’ somewhat theatrical way,
Instead of ‘Love in a Village’ — alas!
The piece they perform’d was ‘The
Devil to Pay!’
However, as secrets are brought to light,
And mischief comes home like chickens at night;
And rivers are track’d throughout their course;
And forgeries trac’d to their proper source —
And the sow that ought
By the ear is caught —
And the sin to the sinful door is brought;
And the cat at last escapes from the bag;
And the saddle is placed on the proper nag;
And the fog blows off, and the key is found;
And the faulty scent is picked out by the hound;
And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground;
And the matter gets wind to waft it about;
And a hint goes abroad and the murder is out —
And the riddle is guess’d and the puzzle is known —
So the truth was sniff’d, and the
Trumpet was blown!
’Tis a day in November — a day of fog —
But the Tringham people are all agog,
Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers’ Sons,
With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,
As if in pursuit of a rabid dog —
But their voices — raised to the highest pitch,
Declare that the game is a Witch! — a Witch! —
Over the Green, and along by the George,
Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge,
And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond,
Till they come to the whitewash’d cottage beyond,
And there at the door they muster and cluster,
And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster,
Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster!
A noise, indeed, so loud and long,
And mix’d with expressions so very strong,
That supposing according to popular fame
‘Wise Woman’ and Witch to be the same,
No Hag with a broom would unwisely stop,
But up and away through the chimney-top;
Whereas the moment they burst the door,
Planted fast on her sanded floor,
With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing,
Lo and behold! Dame Eleanor Spearing!
Oh then arises the fearful shout!
Bawl’d and scream’d and bandied about,
‘Seize her! Drag the old Jezebel out!’
While the Beadle, the foremost of all the band,
Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand,
And after a pause of doubt and fear,
Puts it up to his sharpest ear.
‘Now silence — silence — one and all!’
For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul!
But before he rehearses
A couple of verses,
The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall:
For instead of the words so pious and humble,
He h
ears a supernatural grumble!
Enough, enough, and more than enough! —
Twenty impatient hands, and rough,
By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff,
Apron, kerchief, gown of stuff,
Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff,
Are clutching the Witch wherever they can,
With the spite of Woman and fury of Man.
And then — but first they kill her cat,
And murder her dog on the very mat —
And crush the infernal Trumpet flat —
And then they hurry her through the door —
She never, never will enter more.
Away! away! down the dusty lane
They pull her, and haul her, with might and main —
And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry,
Dandie, or Sandy, Jerry or Larry,
Who happens to ‘get a leg to carry!’
And happy the foot that can give her a kick;
And happy the hand that can find a brick; —
And happy the fingers that hold a stick,
Knife to cut, or pin to prick;
And happy the Boy who can lend her a lick;
Nay, happy the Urchin, Charity-bred,
Who can shy very nigh to her wicked old head!
Alas! to think how people’s creeds
Are contradicted by people’s deeds!
But though the wishes that Witches utter
Can play the most diabolical rigs;
Send styes in the eye — and measle the pigs —
Grease horses’ heels — and spoil the butter —
Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk,
And turn new milk to water and chalk,
Blight apples — and give the chickens the pip —
And cramp the stomach — and cripple the hip —
And waste the body — and addle the eggs —
And give a Baby bandy legs —
Or freeze the blood with such wicked chills
That the teeth must chatter like Harry Gill’s: —
Though in common belief a Witch’s curse
Involves all these horrible things, and worse,
As ignorant bumpkins all profess,
No Bumpkin makes a poke the less
At the back or the ribs of old Eleanor S.,
As if she were only a sack of barley;
Or gives her credit for greater might
Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night
On that other old woman, the parish Charley! —
Ay, now’s the time for a witch to call
On her lmps and Sucklings one and all —
Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown,
(As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down)
Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack,
Greedy Grizel, Jamara the Black,
Vinegar Tom and the rest of the pack —
Aye, now’s the nick for her friend Old Harry
To come ‘with his tail ‘like the bold Glengarry,
And drive her foes from their savage job —
As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob: —
But no such matter is down in the bond; —
And spite of her cries that never cease,
But scare the ducks and astonish the geese,
The Dame is dragg’d to the fatal pond!
And now they come to the water’s brim,
And in they bundle her, sink or swim,
Though it’s twenty to one that the wretch must drown,
With twenty sticks to hold her down;
Including the help to the self same end,
Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend. —
A Pedlar! — Yes! — the same! — the same!
Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame; —
And now is foremost amid the stir,
With a token only reveal’d to her;
A token that makes her shudder and shriek,
And point with her finger — and strive to speak —
But before she can utter the name of the Devil,
Her head is under the water’s level!
MORAL
There are folks about Town — to name no names —
Who much resemble that deafest of Dames;
And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets,
Circulate many a scandalous word,
And whisper tales they could only have heard
Through some such Diabolical Trumpets.
A BULL
One day, no matter where or when,
Except ’twas after some Hibernian revel,
For why? an Irishman is ready then
‘To play the Devil
A Pat, whose surname has escaped the Bards,
Agreed to play with Nick a game at Cards.
The stake, the same that the old
Source of Sin
From German Faustus and his German cousins
Had won by dozens;
The only one in fact he cares a pin to
To win.
By luck or roguery of course Old Nick
Won ev’ry trick;
The score was full, the last turn-up had done it —
‘Your soul — I’ve won it!’
‘It’s true for you I’ve lost that same,’
Said Pat a little hazy in his wits —
‘My soul is yours — but come, another game —
Double, or quits!’
A REFLECTION
When Eve upon the first of Men
Oh! what a thousand pities then
The apple press’d with specious cant
That Adam was not Adamant!
ON A ROYAL DEMISE
How Monarchs die is easily explain’d,
And thus it might upon the Tomb be chisel’d,
‘As long as George the Fourth could reign he reign’d,
And then he mizzled
UP THE RHINE
Why, Tourist, why
With Passport have to do?
Pr’ythee stay at home and pass
The Port and Sherry too.
Why, Tourist, why
Embark for Rotterdam?
Pr’ythee stay at home and take
Thy Hollands in a dram.
Why, Tourist, why
To foreign climes repair?
Pr’ythee take thy German Flute,
And breathe a German air.
Why, Tourist, why
The Seven Mountains view?
Any one at home can tint
A hill with Prussian Blue.
Why, Tourist, why
To old Colonia’s walls?
Sure, to see a Wrenish Dome,
One needn’t leave St. Paul’s.
THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS
The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute;
But the English make Letters still more a pursuit;
For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames
To Cologne for an O and to Nassau for M’s.
After such years of dissension and strife,
Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife:
But his tears on her grave are nothing surprising,
He’s laying her dust, for fear of its rising.
ON A NATIVE SINGER
(AFTER HEARING MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE)
As sweet as the Bird that by calm Bendemeer
Pours such rich modulations of tone —
As potent, as tender, as brilliant, as clear —
Still her Voice has a charm of its own.
For lo! like the skylark, when after its song
It drops down to its nest from above,
She reminds us her home and her music belong
To the very same soil that we love.
TO C. DICKENS, ESQ.
ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA
Pshaw! away with leaf and berry,
And the sober-sided cup!
Bring a goblet, and bright sherry,
And a bumper fill me u
p!
Though a pledge I had to shiver,
And the longest ever was!
Ere his vessel leaves the river
I will drink a health to Boz!
Here’s success to all his antics,
Since it pleases him to roam,
And to paddle o’er Atlantics
After such a sale at home! —
May he shun all rocks whatever,
And each shallow sand that lurks,
And his Passage be as clever
As the best among his works.
31 Decr. 1841 — T. Hood.
NIGHT-SONG — WRITTEN AT SEA
’Tis night — my bark is on the ocean,
No sound I hear, no sight I see,
Not e’en the darkened waves whose motion
Still bears me, Fanny! far from thee; —
But from the misty skies are gleaming
Two smiling stars that look, my love,
As if thine eyes, though veiled, were beaming
Benignly on me from above.
Good-night and bless thee, Fanny dearest! —
Nor let the sound disturb thy sleep,
If when the midnight wind thou hearest,
Thy thoughts are on the distant deep.
Thy lover there is safe and fearless,
For heaven still guards and guides his track,
Nor can his dreaming heart be cheerless,
For still to thee ’tis wafted back.
’Tis sweet on the benighted billow
To trust in Him whom all adore;
’Tis sweet to think that from her pillow
Her prayers for me shall Fanny pour.
The wind, self-lullabied, is dozing,
The winking stars withdraw their light,
Fanny! methinks thine eyes are closing,
Bless thee, my love! Good night, good night!
THE ELM TREE
A DREAM IN THE WOODS
‘And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees.’ — As You Like It.
’Twas in a shady Avenue,
Where lofty Elms abound —
And from a tree
There came to me
A sad and solemn sound,
