Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Read online

  Next a Lover — Oh! say, were you ever in love?

  With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot?

  Have you bow’d to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,

  Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?

  With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,

  Did you walk up the aisle — the genteelest of men?

  When I think of that beautiful vision anew,

  Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!

  I am withered and worn by a premature care,

  And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;

  Old Time’s busy hand has made free with my hair,

  And I’m seeking to hide it — by writing for bays!

  A SAILOR’S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.

  There’s some is born with their straight legs by natur —

  And some is born with bow-legs from the first —

  And some that should have grow’d a good deal straighter,

  But they were badly nurs’d,

  And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs

  Astride of casks and kegs:

  I’ve got myself a sort of bow to larboard,

  And starboard,

  And this is what it was that warp’d my legs. —

  ’Twas all along of Poll, as I may say,

  That foul’d my cable when I ought to slip;

  But on the tenth of May,

  When I gets under weigh,

  Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship,

  I sees the mail

  Get under sail,

  The only one there was to make the trip.

  Well — I gives chase,

  But as she run

  Two knots, to one,

  There warn’t no use in keeping on the race!

  Well — casting round about, what next to try on,

  And how to spin,

  I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,

  And bears away to leeward for the inn,

  Beats round the gable,

  And fetches up before the coach-horse stable:

  Well — there they stand, four kickers in a row.

  And so

  I just makes free to cut a brown ‘un’s cable.

  But riding isn’t in a seaman’s natur —

  So I whips out a toughish end of yarn,

  And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter

  To splice me, heel to heel,

  Under the she-mare’s keel,

  And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!

  My eyes! how she did pitch!

  And wouldn’t keep her own to go in no line,

  Tho’ I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line,

  But always making lee-way to the ditch,

  And yaw’d her head about all sorts of ways.

  The devil sink the craft!

  And wasn’t she trimendus slack in stays!

  We couldn’t, no how, keep the inn abaft!

  Well — I suppose

  We hadn’t run a knot — or much beyond —

  (What will you have on it?) — but off she goes,

  Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond!

  There I am! — all a-back!

  So I looks forward for her bridle-gears,

  To heave her head round on the t’other tack;

  But when I starts,

  The leather parts,

  And goes away right over by the ears!

  What could a fellow do,

  Whose legs, like mine, you know, we’re in the bilboes,

  But trim myself upright for bringing-to,

  And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows,

  In rig all snug and clever,

  Just while his craft was taking in her water?

  I didn’t like my berth tho’, howsomdever,

  Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter, —

  Says I — I wish this job was rayther shorter!

  The chase had gain’d a mile

  A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking;

  Now, all the while

  Her body didn’t take of course to shrinking.

  Says I, she’s letting out her reefs, I’m thinking —

  And so she swell’d, and swell’d,

  And yet the tackle held,

  ‘Till both my legs began to bend like winkin.

  My eyes! but she took in enough to founder!

  And there’s my timbers straining every bit,

  Ready to split,

  And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!

  Well, there — off Hertford Ness,

  We lay both lash’d and water-logg’d together,

  And can’t contrive a signal of distress;

  Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather,

  Tho’ sick of riding out — and nothing less;

  When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn: —

  Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter! —

  And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn.

  So I gets off, and lands upon the road,

  And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn,

  A-standing by the water.

  If I get on another, I’ll be blow’d! —

  And that’s the way, you see, my legs got bow’d!

  JACK HALL.

  ’Tis very hard when men forsake

  This melancholy world, and make

  A bed of turf, they cannot take

  A quiet doze,

  But certain rogues will come and break

  Their “bone” repose.

  ’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath,

  And to the earth our earth bequeath,

  Without Death-Fetches after death,

  Who thus exhume us;

  And snatch us from our homes beneath,

  And hearths posthumous.

  The tender lover comes to rear

  The mournful urn, and shed his tear-

  Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!

  Alack! Alack!

  The while his Sacharissa dear

  Is a sack!

  ’Tis hard one cannot lie amid

  The mould, beneath a coffin-lid,

  But thus the Faculty will bid

  Their rogues break through it,

  If they don’t want us there, why did

  They send us to it?

  One of these sacrilegious knaves,

  Who crave as hungry vulture craves,

  Behaving as the goul behaves,

  ‘Neath church-yard wall —

  Mayhap because he fed on graves,

  Was nam’d Jack Hall.

  By day it was his trade to go

  Tending the black coach to and fro;

  And sometimes at the door of woe,

  With emblems suitable,

  He stood with brother Mute, to show

  That life is mutable.

  But long before they pass’d the ferry,

  The dead that he had help’d to bury,

  He sack’d — (he had a sack to carry

  The bodies off in)

  In fact, he let them have a very

  Short fit of coffin.

  Night after night, with crow and spade,

  He drove this dead but thriving trade,

  Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’d

  A single horsehair;

  On corses of all kinds he prey’d,

  A perfect corsair!

  At last — it may be, Death took spite;

  Or, jesting only, meant to fright-

  He sought for Jack night after night.

  The churchyards round;

  And soon they met, the man and sprite,

  In Pancras’ ground.

  Jack, by the glimpses of the moon.

  Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon,

  An awful shape to meet at noon

  Of night and lonely;

  But Jack’s tough courage did but swoon

  A minute only.

  Anon he gave his spade a swing
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  Aloft, and kept it brandishing,

  Ready for what mishaps might spring

  From this conjunction;

  Funking indeed was quite a thing

  Beside his function.

  “Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sands

  Run out? the stoutest never stands

  A chance with me, — to my commands

  The strongest truckles;

  But I’m your friend — so let’s shake hands,

  I should say — knuckles.”

  Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightly

  And meaning nothing but uprightly,

  Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,

  His mull did proffer:

  But Death, who had no nose, politely

  Declin’d the offer.

  Then sitting down upon a bank,

  Leg over leg, shank over shank,

  Like friends for conversation frank,

  That had no check on:

  Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,

  “You’re Death, I reckon.”

  The jaw-bone grinn’d:— “I am that same,

  You’ve hit exactly on my name;

  In truth it has some little fame

  Where burial sod is.”

  Quoth Jack, (and wink’d), “of course ye came

  Here after bodies.”

  Death grinn’d again and shook his head: —

  “I’ve little business with the dead;

  When they are fairly sent to bed

  I’ve done my turn:

  Whether or not the worms are fed

  Is your concern.

  “My errand here, in meeting you,

  Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’

  I’ve done what jobs I had — a few

  Along this way;

  If I can serve a crony too,

  I beg you’ll say.”

  Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:

  And now I call the thing to mind,

  This parish very strict I find;

  But in the next ‘an

  There lives a very well-inclined

  Old sort of sexton.”

  Death took the hint, and gave a wink

  As well as eyelet holes can blink;

  Then stretching out his arm to link

  The other’s arm, —

  “Suppose,” says he, “we have a drink

  Of something warm.”

  Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease

  Spoke up at once:— “Why, what ye please;

  Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,

  A famous tap.”

  But this suggestion seem’d to tease

  The bony chap.

  “No, no — your mortal drinks are heady,

  And only make my hand unsteady,

  I do not even care for Deady,

  And loathe your rum;

  But I’ve some glorious brewage ready.

  My drink is — Mum!”

  And off they set, each right content —

  Who knows the dreary way they went?

  But Jack felt rather faint and spent.

  And out of breath;

  At last he saw, quite evident,

  The Door of Death.

  All other men had been unmann’d

  To see a coffin on each hand,

  That served a skeleton to stand

  By way of sentry;

  In fact, Death has a very grand

  And awful entry.

  Throughout his dismal sign prevails,

  His name is writ in coffin nails;

  The mortal darts make area rails;

  A skull that mocketh,

  Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails

  Whoever knocketh.

  And lo! on either side, arise

  Two monstrous pillars — bones of thighs,

  A monumental slab supplies

  The step of stone,

  Where waiting for his master lies

  A dog of bone.

  The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,

  The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell,

  The ghastly knocker rose and fell,

  But caused no riot;

  The ways of Death, we all know well

  Are very quiet.

  Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind;

  Quoth Death, “I really hope you’ll find

  The entertainment to your mind,

  As I shall treat ye —

  A friend or two of goblin kind,

  I’ve asked to meet ye,”

  And lo! a crowd of spectres tall,

  Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall,

  Were standing — every ghastly ball —

  An eager watcher.

  “My friend,” says Death— “friends, Mr. Hall,

  The body-snatcher.”

  Lord, what a tumult it produced.

  When Mr. Hall was introduced!

  Jack even, who had long been used

  To frightful things,

  Felt just as if his back was sluic’d

  With freezing springs!

  Each goblin face began to make

  Some horrid mouth — ape — gorgon — snake;

  And then a spectre-hag would shake

  An airy thigh-bone;

  And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll break

  Your bone, with my bone!

  Some ground their teeth — some seem’d to spit —

  (Nothing, but nothing came of it,)

  A hundred awful brows were knit

  In dreadful spite.

  Thought Jack— “I’m sure I’d better quit

  Without good-night.”

  One skip and hop and he was clear,

  And running like a hunted deer,

  As fleet as people run by fear

  Well spurr’d and whipp’d,

  Death, ghosts, and all in that career

  Were quite outstripp’d.

  But those who live by death must die;

  Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly;

  And when his latter end drew nigh.

  Oh! what a swarm

  Of doctors came, — but not to try

  To keep him warm.

  No ravens ever scented prey

  So early where a dead horse lay,

  Nor vultures sniff’d so far away

  A last convulse:

  A dozen “guests” day after day

  Were “at his pulse.”

  ’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees,

  How still they watch ‘d by twos and threes.

  But Jack a very little ease

  Obtain’d from them;

  In fact he did not find M. D.’s

  Worth one D —— M.

  The passing bell with hollow toll

  Was in his thought — the dreary hole!

  Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,

  And then a cough: —

  “There’s something weighing on my soul

  I wish was off;

  “All night it roves about my brains,

  All day it adds to all my pains,

  It is concerning my remains

  When I am dead:”

  Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes

  Drew near his bed.

  “Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraid

  A dozen pangs my heart invade;

  But when I drove a certain trade

  In flesh and bone,

  There was a little bargain made

  About my own.”

  Twelve suits of black began to close,

  Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose,

  Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows,

  At once drew round;

  Twelve noses turn’d against his nose,

  Twelve snubs profound.

  “Ten guineas did not quite suffice,

  And so I sold my body twice;

  Twice did not do — I sold it thrice,

  Forgive my crimes!

  In short I have rece
ived its price

  A dozen times!

  Twelve brows got very grim and black,

  Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,

  Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack

  Took up position,

  Ready to share the dying Jack

  By long division.

  Twelve angry doctors wrangled so,

  That twelve had struck an hour ago,

  Before they had an eye to throw

  On the departed;

  Twelve heads turn’d round at once, and lo!

  Twelve doctors started.

  Whether some comrade of the dead,

  Or Satan took it in his head

  To steal the corpse — the corpse had fled!

  ’Tis only written,

  That “there was nothing in the bed,

  But twelve were bitten!”

  THE WEE MAN.

  A ROMANCE.

  It was a merry company,

  And they were just afloat,

  When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,

  Came up and hailed the boat.

  “Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,

  And will you let me in?

  A slender space will serve my case,

  For I am small and thin.”

  They saw he was a dwarfish man,

  And very small and thin;

  Not seven such would matter much,

  And so they took him in.

  They laughed to see his little hat,

  With such a narrow brim;

  They laughed to note his dapper coat,

  With skirts so scant and trim.

  But barely had they gone a mile,

  When, gravely, one and all

  At once began to think the man

  Was not so very small:

  His coat had got a broader skirt,

  His hat a broader brim;

  His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out

  A very proper limb.

  Still on they went, and as they went,

  More rough the billows grew, —

  And rose and fell, a greater swell,

  And he was swelling too!

  And lo! where room had been for seven,