Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Read online

But must I never touch? —

  Must I forbear to hand a chair

  And not pick up a fan?

  But I have been myself picked up —

  I’m not a single man!

  XIII

  Others may hint a lady’s tint

  Is purest red and white —

  May say her eyes are like the skies,

  So very blue and bright,

  I must not say that she has eyes,

  Or if I so began,

  I have my fears about my ears, —

  I’m not a single man!

  XIV

  I must confess I did not guess

  A simple marriage vow,

  Would make me find all womenkind

  Such unkind women now;

  I might be hash’d to death, or smash’d,

  By Mr. Pickford’s van, —

  Without, I fear, a single tear —

  I’m not a single man!

  THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER

  ‘Sometimes they were put to the proof by what was called the Fiery Ordeal.’ —— Hist. Eng.

  No morning ever seemed so long! — I tried to read with all my might!

  In my left hand ‘My Landlord’s Tales,’

  And threepence ready in my right.

  ’Twas twelve at last — my heart beat high! —

  The Postman rattled at the door! —

  And just upon her road to church,

  I dropt the ‘Bride of Lammermoor!’

  I seized the note — I flew upstairs —

  Flung-to the door, and locked me in —

  With panting haste I tore the seal —

  And kiss’d the B in Benjamin!

  ’Twas full of love — to rhyme with dove —

  And all that tender sort of thing —

  Of sweet and meet — and heart and dart —

  But not a word about a ring! —

  In doubt I cast it in the flame,

  And stood to watch the latest spark —

  And saw the love all end in smoke —

  Without a Parson and a Clerk!

  THE APPARITION

  In the dead of the night, when, from beds that are turfy,

  The spirits rise up on old cronies to call,

  Came a shade from the Shades on a visit to Murphy,

  Who had not foreseen such a visit at all.

  ‘Don’t shiver and shake,’ said the mild Apparition,

  ‘I’m come to your bed with no evil design;

  I’m the Spirit of Moore, Francis Moore the Physician,

  Once great like yourself in the Almanack line.

  Like you I was once a great prophet on weather,

  And deem’d to possess a more prescient knack

  Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together,

  The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack.

  With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion,

  I saw my old mantle lugg’d out from the shelf,

  Turn’d, trimmed, and brush’d up, and again brought in fashion,

  I seem’d to be almost reviving myself!

  But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantle —

  As too many cooks make a mull of the broth —

  To find that two Prophets were under my mantle,

  And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth.

  Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble,

  Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps;

  Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble,

  The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps!

  But think how the people would worship and wonder,

  To find you ‘hail fellows, well met,’ in your hail,

  In one tune with your rain, and your wind, and your thunder,

  ‘‘Fore God,’ they would cry, ‘they are both in a tale!’

  Consider the hint.

  LITTLE O’P. — AN AFRICAN FACT

  It was July the First, and the great hill of Howth

  Was bearing by compass sow-west and by south,

  And the name of the ship was the Peggy of Cork,

  Well freighted with bacon and butter and pork.

  Now, this ship had a captain, Macmorris by name,

  And little O’Patrick was mate of the same;

  For Bristol they sail’d, but by nautical scope,

  They contrived to be lost by the Cape of Good Hope.

  Of all the Cork boys that the vessel could boast,

  Only little O’P. made a swim to the coast;

  And when he revived from a sort of a trance,

  He saw a big Black with a very long lance.

  Says the savage, says he, in some Hottentot tongue,

  ‘Bash Kuku my gimmel be gumborry bung!’

  Then blew a long shell, to the fright of our elf,

  And down came a hundred as black as himself.

  They brought with them guattul, and pieces of klam,

  The first was like beef, and the second like lamb;

  ‘Don’t I know,’ said O’P., what the wretches are at?

  ‘They’re intending to eat me as soon as I’m fat!’

  In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot,

  His rations of jarbul he suffer’d to rot;

  He would not touch purry or doolberry-lik,

  But kept himself growing as thin as a stick.

  Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth,

  He would not let chobbery enter his mouth,

  But kick’d down the krug shell, tho’ sweeten’d with natt, —

  ‘I an’t to be pison’d the likes of a rat!’

  At last the great Joddry got quite in a rage,

  And cried, ‘O mi pitticum dambally nage!

  The chobbery take, and put back on the shelf,

  Or give me the krug shell, I’ll drink it myself!

  The doolberry-lik is the best to be had,

  And the purry (I chew’d it myself) is not bad;

  The jarbul is fresh, for I saw it cut out,

  And the Boh that it came from is grazing about.

  My jumbo! but run off to Billery Nang,

  And tell her to put on her jigger and tang,

  And go with the Bloss to the man of the sea,

  And say that she comes as his Wulwul from me.’

  Now Billery Nang was as Black as a sweep,

  With thick curly hair like the wool of a sheep,

  And the moment he spied her, said little O’P.,

  ‘Sure the Divil is dead, and his Widow’s at me!

  But when, in the blaze of her Hottentot charms,

  She came to accept him for life in her arms,

  And stretch’d her thick lips to a broad grin of love,

  A Raven preparing to bill like a Dove,

  With a soul full of dread he declined the grim bliss,

  Stopped her Molyneux arms, and eluded her kiss;

  At last, fairly foiled, she gave up the attack,

  And Joddry began to look blacker than black;

  ‘By Mumbo! by Jumbo! — why here is a man,

  That won’t be made happy do all that I can;

  He will not be married, lodged, clad, and well fed,

  Let the Rham take his shangwang and chop off his head!’

  THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL

  DESIGN’D, I KISSED THE ROD.

  Well! I think it is time to put up!

  For it does not accord with my notions,

  Wrist, elbow, and chine,

  Stiff from throwing the line,

  To take nothing at last by my motions!

  I ground-bait my way as I go,

  And dip in at each watery dimple:

  But however I wish

  To inveigle the fish, —

  To my gentle they will not play simple!

  Though my float goes so swimmingly on,

  My bad luck never seems to diminish;

  It would seem that the Bream

  Must be scarce in the strea
m,

  And the Chub, tho’ it’s chubby, be thinnish!

  Not a Trout there can be in the place,

  Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,

  And although at my hook

  With attention I look,

  I can ne’er see my hook with a Tench on! —

  At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,

  But they seem upon different terms now;

  Have they taken advice

  Of the ‘Council of Nice,’

  And rejected their ‘Diet of Worms,’ now?

  In vain my live minnow I spin,

  Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;

  For the gut I have brought,

  I had better have bought

  A good rope that was used to Jackketching! —

  Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,

  It is vain in this river to search then;

  I may wait till it’s night,

  Without any bite,

  And at roost-time have never a Perch then!

  No Roach can I meet with — no Bleak,

  Save what in the air is so sharp now;

  Not a Dace have I got,

  And I fear it is not —

  ‘Carpe diem,’ a day for the Carp now!

  Oh! there is not a one-pound prize

  To be got in this fresh-water lottery!

  What then can I deem

  Of so fishless a stream

  But that ’tis — like St. Mary’s — Ottery!

  For an Eel I have learn’d how to try,

  By a method of Walton’s own showing, —

  But a fisherman feels

  Little prospect of Eels,

  In a path that s devoted to towing!

  I have tried all the water for miles,

  Till I’m weary of dipping and casting,

  And hungry and faint, —

  Let the Fancy just paint

  What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!

  And the rain drizzles down very fast,

  While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell, —

  So, wet to the skin,

  I’ll e’en back to my Inn, —

  Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell!

  SEA SONG

  AFTER DIBDIN

  Pure water it plays a good part in

  The swabbing the decks and all that —

  And it finds its own level for sartin —

  For it sartinly drinks very flat: —

  For my part a drop of the creator

  I never could think was a fault,

  For if Tars should swig water by natur,

  The sea would have never been salt! —

  Then off with it into a jorum

  And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, —

  For if I’ve any sense of decorum,

  It never was meant to be neat! —

  One day when I was but half sober, —

  Half measures I always disdain —

  I walk’d into a shop that sold Soda,

  And ax’d for some Water Champagne: —

  Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,

  Tim’d shipped my six bottles or more,

  And blow off my last limb but it’s true, boys,

  Why, I warn’t half so drunk as afore! —

  Then off with it into a jorum,

  And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,

  For if I’ve any sense of decorum,

  It never was meant to be neat.

  STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE

  ‘Twiddle’em, Twaddle’em, Twenty-one.’

  ‘Nurse. O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!

  Most lamentable day! most woeful day!

  That ever, ever, I did yet behold!

  O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!

  Never was seen so black a day as this!

  O woeful day! O woeful day!

  * * * *

  Musician. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.

  Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up!

  For well you know this is a pitiful case.’

  Romeo and Juliet.

  To-day it is my natal day,

  Three ‘prenticeships have past away,

  A part in work, a part in play,

  Since I was bound to life!

  This first of May I come of age,

  A man, I enter on the stage

  Where human passions fret and rage,

  To mingle in the strife.

  It ought to be a happy date,

  My friends, they all congratulate

  That I am come to ‘Man’s Estate,’

  To some, a grand event;

  But ah! to me descent allots

  No acres, no paternal spots

  In Beds, Bucks, Herts, Wilts, Essex, Notts,

  Hants, Oxon, Berks, or Kent.

  From John o’Groat’s to Land’s End search,

  I have not one rod, pole, or perch,

  To pay my rent, or tithe to church,

  That I can call my own.

  Not common-right for goose or ass;

  Then, what is Man’s Estate? Alas!

  Six feet by two of mould and grass

  When I am dust and bone.

  Reserve the feast! The board forsake!

  Ne’er tap the wine — don’t cut the cake,

  No toasts or foolish speeches make,

  At which my reason spurns.

  Before this happy term you praise,

  And prate about returns and days,

  Just o’er my vacant rent-roll gaze,

  And sum up my returns.

  I know where great estates descend

  That here is Boyhood’s legal end,

  And easily can comprehend

  How ‘Manors make the Man.’

  But as for me, I was not born

  To quit-rent of a peppercorn,

  And gain no ground this blessed morn

  From Beersheba to Dan.

  No barrels broach — no bonfires make!

  To roast a bullock for my sake,

  Who in the country have no stake,

  Would be too like a quiz;

  No banners hoist — let off no gun —

  Pitch no marquee — devise no fun —

  But think when man is Twenty-One

  What new delights are his!

  What is the moral legal fact —

  Of age to-day, I’m free to act

  For self — free, namely, to contract

  Engagements, bonds, and debts;

  I’m free to give my! O U,

  Sign, draw, accept, as majors do;

  And free to lose my freedom too

  For want of due assets.

  I am of age, to ask Miss Ball,

  Or that great heiress, Miss Duval,

  To go to church, hump, squint, and all,

  And be my own for life.

  But put such reasons on their shelves,

  To tell the truth between ourselves,

  I’m one of those contented elves

  Who do not want a wife.

  What else belongs to Manhood still?

  I’m old enough to make my will

  With valid clause and codicil

  Before in turf I lie.

  But I have nothing to bequeath

  In earth, or waters underneath,

  And in all candour let me breathe,

  I do not want to die.

  Away! if this be Manhood’s forte,

  Put by the sherry and the port —

  No ring of bells — no rustic sport —

  No dance — no merry pipes!

  No flowery garlands — no bouquet —

  No Birthday Ode to sing or say —

  To me it seems this is a day

  For bread and cheese and swipes.

  To justify the festive cup

  What horrors here are conjured up!

  What things of bitter bite and sup,

  Poor wretched Twenty-One’s!

  No landed lumps, but f
rumps and humps,

  (Discretion’s Days are far from trumps)

  Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps,

  Death, dockets, debts, and duns!

  If you must drink, oh drink the King.’

  Reform — the Church — the Press — the Ring, —

  Drink Aldgate Pump — or anything,

  Before a toast like this!

  Nay, tell me, coming thus of age,

  And turning o’er this sorry page,

  Was young Nineteen so far from sage?

  Or young Eighteen from bliss?

  Till this dull, cold, wet, happy morn —

  No sign of May about the thorn, —

  Were Love and Bacchus both unborn?

  Had Beauty, not a shape? —

  Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty!

  Make answer, lads of Trinity!

  Who sipp’d with me Divinity,

  And quaff’d the ruby grape!

  No flummery then from flowery lips,

  No three times three and hip-hip-hips,

  Because I’m ripe and full of pips —

  I like a little green.

  To put me on my solemn oath,

  If sweep-like I could stop my growth

  I would remain, and nothing loth,

  A boy — about nineteen.

  My friends, excuse me these rebukes!

  Were I a monarch’s son, or duke’s,

  Go to the Vatican of Meux

  And broach his biggest barrels —

  Impale whole elephants on spits —

  Ring Tom of Lincoln till he splits,

  And dance into St. Vitus’ fits, And break your winds with carols!

  But ah! too well you know my lot,

  Ancestral acres greet me not,

  My freehold’s in a garden-pot,

  And barely worth a pin.

  Away then with all festive stuff!

  Let Robins advertise and puff

  My ‘Man’s Estate,’ I’m sure enough

  I shall not buy it in.

  A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE