Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Page 17

  For six there scarce was space!

  For five! — for four! — for three! — not more

  Than two could find a place!

  There was not even room for one!

  They crowded by degrees —

  Ay — closer yet, till elbows met,

  And knees were jogging knees.

  “Good sir, you must not sit a-stern,

  The wave will else come in!”

  Without a word he gravely stirred,

  Another seat to win.

  “Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,

  You must not sit a-lee!”

  With smiling face and courteous grace,

  The middle seat took he.

  But still, by constant quiet growth,

  His back became so wide,

  Each neighbor wight, to left and right,

  Was thrust against the side.

  Lord! how they chided with themselves,

  That they had let him in;

  To see him grow so monstrous now,

  That came so small and thin.

  On every brow a dewdrop stood,

  They grew so scared and hot, —

  “I’ the name of all that’s great and tall,

  Who are ye, sir, and what?”

  Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh

  As loud as giant’s roar —

  “When first I came, my proper name

  Was Little — now I’m Moore!”

  A BUTCHER.

  Whoe’er has gone thro’ London street

  Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat,

  And how he keeps

  Gloating upon a sheep’s

  Or bullocks personals, as if his own;

  How he admires his halves

  And quarters, and his calves

  As if in truth upon his own legs grown -

  His fat, his suet,

  His kidneys peeping elegantly thro’ it,

  His thick flank, and his thin,

  His shank, his shin,

  Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone!

  With what an air

  He stands aloof across the thoroughfare

  Gazing, and will not let a body by,

  Tho’ buy,buy, buy! be constantly his cry,

  Meanwhile with arms akimbo, and a pair

  Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare

  At his Joint Stock - for one may call it so,

  Howbeit with a Co.

  The dotage of self-love was never fonder

  Than he of his brute bodies all a-row;

  Narcissus in the wave did never ponder,

  With love so strong,

  On his portrait charmant

  As our vain Butcher on his carcass yonder.

  Look at his sleek round skull!

  How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is!

  His visage seems to be

  Ripe for beef-tea;

  Of brutal juices the whole man is full

  In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis,

  The Butcher is already half a Bull.

  DON’T YOU SMELL FIRE?

  RUN! — run for St. Clements’s engine!

  For the Pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,

  And the pledges are frying and singing —

  Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!

  Now where can the turncock be drinking:

  Was there ever so thirsty an elf? —

  But he still may tope on, for I’m thinking

  That the plugs are as dry as himself.

  The engines! — I hear them come rumbling;

  There’s the Phoenix! the Globe! and the Sun!

  What a row there will be, and a grumbling

  When the water don’t start for a run!

  See! there they come racing and tearing,

  All the street with loud voices is fill’d;

  Oh! it’s only the firemen a-swearing

  At a man they’ve run over and kill’d!

  How sweetly the sparks fly away now,

  And twinkle like stars in the sky;

  It’s a wonder the engines don’t play now.

  But I never saw water so shy!

  Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,

  And the fire it is fiercer, alas!

  Oh! instead of the New River pipe,

  They have gone — that they have — to the gas!

  Only look at the poor little P — — ‘s,

  On the roof — is there anything sadder?

  My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,

  And they won’t be an hour with the ladder’,

  But if any one’s hot in their feet,

  And in very great haste to be saved,

  Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,

  That McAdam has lately unpaved!

  There is some one — I see a dark shape

  At that window, the hottest of all, —

  My good woman, why don’t you escape?

  Never think of your bonnet and shawl:

  If your dress isn’t perfect, what is it

  For once in a way to your hurt?

  When your husband is paying a visit

  There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!

  Only see how she throws out her chaney!

  Her basons, and teapots, and all

  The most brittle of her goods — or any,

  But they all break in breaking their fall:

  Such things are not surely the best

  From a two-story window to throw —

  She might save a good iron-bound chest,

  For there’s plenty of people below!

  O dear! what a beautiful flash!

  How it shone thro’ the window and door;

  We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,

  When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!

  There! there! what a volley of flame,

  And then suddenly all is obscured! —

  Well — I’m glad in my heart that I came;

  But I hope the poor man is insured!

  THE VOLUNTEER.

  “The clashing of my armor in my ears

  Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me

  In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe

  To dig my grave.”

  THE WIDOW.

  One widow at a grave will sob

  A little while, and weep, and sigh!

  If two should meet on such a job,

  They’ll have a gossip by and by.

  If three should come together — why,

  Three widows are good company!

  If four should meet by any chance,

  Four is a number very nice,

  To have a rubber in a trice —

  But five will up and have a dance!

  Poor Mrs. C —— (why should I not

  Declare her name? — her name was Cross)

  Was one of those the “common lot”

  Had left to weep “no common loss”;

  For she had lately buried then

  A man, the “very best of men,”

  A lingering truth, discovered first

  Whenever men “are at the worst.”

  To take the measure of her woe,

  It was some dozen inches deep —

  I mean in crape, and hung so low,

  It hid the drops she did not weep:

  In fact, what human life appears,

  It was a perfect “veil of tears.”

  Though ever since she lost “her prop

  And stay” — alas! he wouldn’t stay —

  She never had a tear to mop,

  Except one little angry drop

  From Passion’s eye, as Moore would say,

  Because, when Mister Cross took flight,

  It looked so very like a spite —

  He died upon a washing-day!

  Still Widow Cross went twice a week,

  As if “to wet a widows’ cheek,”

  And soothe his grave with sorrow’s gravy —

  �
��Twas nothing but a make-believe,

  She might as well have hoped to grieve

  Enough of brine to float a navy;

  And yet she often seemed to raise

  A cambric kerchief to her eye —

  A duster ought to be the phrase,

  Its work was all so very dry.

  The springs were locked that ought to flow —

  In England or in widow-woman —

  As those that watch the weather know,

  Such “backward Springs” are not uncommon.

  But why did Widow Cross take pains

  To call upon the “dear remains” —

  Remains that could not tell a jot

  Whether she ever wept or not,

  Or how his relict took her losses?

  Oh! my black ink turns red for shame —

  But still the naughty world must learn,

  There was a little German came

  To shed a tear in “Anna’s Urn,”

  At the next grave to Mr. Cross’s!

  For there an angel’s virtues slept,

  “Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!”

  But still her painted face he kept,

  “Encompassed in an angel’s frame.”

  He looked quite sad and quite deprived,

  His head was nothing but a hat-band;

  He looked so lone, and so unwived,

  That soon the Widow Cross contrived

  To fall in love with even that band!

  And all at once the brackish juices

  Came gushing out thro’ sorrow’s sluices —

  Tear after tear too fast to wipe,

  Tho’ sopped, and sopped, and sopped again —

  No leak in sorrow’s private pipe,

  But like a bursting on the main!

  Whoe’er has watched the window-pane —

  I mean to say in showery weather —

  Has seen two little drops of rain,

  Like lovers very fond and fain,

  At one another creeping, creeping,

  Till both, at last, embrace together:

  So fared it with that couple’s weeping!

  The principle was quite as active —

  Tear unto tear

  Kept drawing near,

  Their very blacks became attractive.

  To cut a shortish story shorter,

  Conceive them sitting tête-à-tête —

  Two cups — hot muffins on a plate —

  With “Anna’s Urn” to hold hot water!

  The brazen vessel for awhile

  Had lectured in an easy song,

  Like Abernethy, — on the bile —

  The scalded herb was getting strong;

  All seemed as smooth as smooth could be,

  To have a cosy cup of tea.

  Alas! how often human sippers

  With unexpected bitters meet,

  And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,

  Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

  The Widow Cross, I should have told,

  Had seen three husbands to the mould:

  She never sought an Indian pyre,

  Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves;

  But, with a proper sense of fire,

  Put up, instead, with “three removes.”

  Thus, when with any tender words

  Or tears she spoke about her loss,

  The dear departed Mr. Cross

  Came in for nothing but his thirds;

  For, as all widows love too well,

  She liked upon the list to dwell,

  And oft ripped up the old disasters.

  She might, indeed, have been supposed

  A great ship owner; for she prosed

  Eternally of her Three Masters!

  Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed

  Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned

  What had been left her by her first,

  And by her last, and by her second.

  Alas! not all her annual rents

  Could then entice the little German —

  Not Mr. Cross’s Three per Cents,

  Or Consols, ever make him her man.

  He liked her cash, he liked her houses,

  But not that dismal bit of land

  She always settled on her spouses.

  So taking up his hat and band,

  Said he, “You’ll think my conduct odd —

  But here my hopes no more may linger;

  I thought you had a wedding-finger,

  But oh! — it is a curtain-rod!”

  JOHN TROT.

  A BALLAD.

  JOHN TROT he was as tall a lad

  As York did ever rear

  As his dear Granny used to say,

  He’d make a grenadier.

  A serjeant soon came down to York,

  With ribbons and a frill:

  My lads, said he, let broadcast be,

  And come away to drill.

  But when he wanted John to ‘list,

  In war he saw no fun,

  Where what is call’d a raw recruit,

  Gets often over-done.

  Let others carry guns, said he,

  And go to war’s alarms,

  But I have got a shoulder-knot

  Impos’d upon my arms.

  For John he had a footman’s place

  To wait on Lady Wye —

  She was a dumpy woman, tho’

  Her family was high.

  Now when two years had past away,

  Her Lord took very ill,

  And left her to her widowhood,

  Of course more dumpy still.

  Said John, I am a proper man,

  And very tall to see;

  Who knows, but now her Lord is low,

  She may look un to me?

  A cunning woman told me once.

  Such fortune would turn up;

  She was a kind of sorceress,

  But studied in a cup!

  So he walk’d up to Lady Wye,

  And took her quite amazed, —

  She thought, tho’ John was tall enough,

  He wanted to be raised.

  But John — for why? she was a dame

  Of such a dwarfish sort —

  Had only come to bid her make

  Her mourning very short.

  Said he, your Lord is dead and cold,

  You only cry in vain;

  Not all the Cries of London now,

  Could call him back again!

  You’ll soon have many a noble beau,

  To dry your noble tears —

  But just consider this, that I

  Have follow’d you for years.

  And tho’ you are above me far,

  What matters high degree,

  When you are only four foot nine

  And I am six foot three?

  For tho’ you are of lofty race,

  And I’m a low-born elf;

  Yet none among your friends could say,

  You matched beneath yourself.

  Said she, such insolence as this

  Can be no common case;

  Tho’ you are in my service, sir.

  Your love is out of place.

  O Lady Wye! O Lady Wye!

  Consider what you do;

  How can you be so short with me,

  I am not so with you!

  Then ringing for her serving men,

  They show’d him to the door;

  Said they, you turn out better now,

  Why didn’t you before?

  They stripp’d his coat, and gave him kicks

  For all his wages due;

  And off, instead of green and gold,

  He went in black and blue.

  No family would take him in,

  Because of this discharge;

  So he made up his mind to serve

  The country all at large.

  Huzza! the Serjeant cried, and put

  The money in his hand,

  And with a shilling cut him off
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  From his paternal land.

  For when his regiment went to fight

  At Saragossa town,

  A Frenchman thought he look’d too tall

  And so he cut him down!

  ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD.

  WELCOME to Freedom’s birth-place — and a den!

  Great Anti-climax, hail!

  So very lofty in thy front — but then,

  So dwindling at the tail! —

  In truth, thou hast the most unequal legs!

  Has one pair gallop’d, whilst the other trotted,

  Along with other brethren; leopard-spotted,

  O’er Afric sand, where ostriches lay eggs?

  Sure thou wert caught in some hard uphill chase,

  Those hinder heels still keeping thee in check!

  And yet thou seem’st prepared in any case,

  Tho’ they had lost the race,

  To win it by a neck!

  That lengthy neck — how like a crane’s it looks!

  Art thou the overseer of all the brutes?

  Or dost thou browze on tip-top leaves or fruits —

  Or go a bird-nesting amongst the rooks?

  How kindly nature caters for all wants;

  Thus giving unto thee a neck that stretches,

  And high food fetches —

  To some a long nose, like the elephant’s!

  Oh! had’st thou any organ to thy bellows,

  To turn thy breath to speech in human style.

  What secrets thou might’st tell us,

  Where now our scientific guesses fail;

  For instance of the Nile,

  Whether those Seven Mouths have any tail —

  Mayhap thy luck too,

  From that high head, as from a lofty hill,

  Has let thee see the marvellous Timbuctoo —

  Or drink of Niger at its infant rill;

  What were the travels of our Major Denham,

  Or Clapperton, to thine

  In that same line,

  If thou could’st only squat thee down and pen ‘em!

  Strange sights, indeed, thou must have overlook’d,

  With eyes held ever in such vantage-stations!