Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hood Read online

  On the old babe-reading,

  Beside his open street-and parlour door,

  A hideous roar

  Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

  Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed,

  Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels

  Or Durham feed;

  With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils

  From nether side of Tweed,

  Or Firth of Forth;

  Looking half wild with joy to leave the North, —

  With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, —

  When, — whether from a fly’s malicious comment

  Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank;

  Or whether

  Only in some enthusiastic moment, —

  However, one brown monster, in a frisk,

  Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,

  Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble;

  And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a

  Horn-pipe before the basket-maker’s villa,

  Leapt o’er the tiny pale, —

  Back’d his beefsteaks against the wooden gable,

  And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail

  Right o’er the page,

  Wherein the sage

  Just then was spelling some romantic fable.

  The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,

  Could not peruse, — who could? — two tales at once;

  And being huff’d

  At what he knew was none of Riquet’s Tuft,

  Bang’d-to the door,

  But most unluckily enclosed a morsel

  Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel: —

  The monster gave a roar,

  And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,

  The little house became a coach once more,

  And, like Macheath, “took to the road” again!

  Just then, by fortune’s whimsical decree,

  The ancient woman stooping with her crupper

  Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,

  Was getting up some household herbs for supper;

  Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,

  And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts

  Could o’er a common pumpkin so prevail,

  To turn it to a coach; — what pretty gifts

  Might come of cabbages, and curly kale;

  Meanwhile she never heard her old man’s wail,

  Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite

  Gone out of sight!

  At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,

  Weary of sitting on her russet clothing,

  And looking round

  Where rest was to be found,

  There was no house — no villa there — no nothing!

  No house!

  The change was quite amazing;

  It made her senses stagger for a minute,

  The riddle’s explication seemed to harden;

  But soon her superannuated nous

  Explain’d the horrid mystery; — and raising

  Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,

  On which she meant to sup, —

  “Well! this is Fairy work! I’ll bet a farden,

  Little Prince Silverwings has ketch’d me up,

  And set me down in some one else’s garden!”

  THE FALL OF THE DEER.

  [FROM AN OLD MS.]

  NOW the loud Crye is up, and harke!

  The barkye Trees give back the Bark;

  The House Wife heares the merrie rout,

  And runnes, — and lets the beere run out,

  Leaving her Babes to weepe, — for why?

  She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye,

  And see the wild Stag how he stretches

  The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches,

  Running like one of Human kind

  Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind —

  As if he had not payde his Bill

  For Ven’son, or was owing still

  For his two Hornes, and soe did get

  Over his Head and Ears in Debt; —

  Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye

  With his long Legges the while he maye: —

  But he is chased, like Silver Dish,

  As well as anye Hart may wish

  Except that one whose Heart doth beat

  So faste it hasteneth his feet; —

  And runninge soe, he holdeth Death

  Four Feet from him, — till his Breath

  Faileth, and slacking Pace at last,

  From runninge slow he standeth faste,

  With hornie Bayonettes at baye,

  To baying Dogges around, and they

  Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore,

  And goreth them that seeke his Gore,

  Whatever Dogge his Horne doth rive

  Is dead — as sure as he’s live!

  Soe that courageous Hart doth fight

  With Fate, and calleth up his might

  And standeth stout that he maye fall

  Bravelye, and be avenged of all,

  Nor like a Craven yeeld his Breath

  Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death!

  DECEMBER AND MAY.

  “Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together.”

  SHAKSPEARE.

  SAID Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day,

  “Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes away?

  You ought to be more fortified;” “Ah, brute, be quiet, do,

  I know I’m not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied as you!

  Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard,

  You’d die for me you swore, and I — I took you at your word.

  I was a tradesman’s widow then — a pretty change I’ve made;

  To live, and die the wife of one, a widower by trade!”

  “Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth,

  You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth;

  Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you

  huff.”

  “Why, yes,” she said, “and so I do — but you’re not old enough!’”

  “Come, come, my dear, let’s make it up, and have a quiet hive;

  I’ll be the best of men, — I mean, — I’ll be the best alive!

  Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core.” —

  “I thank ye, Sir, for telling me — for now I’ll grieve the more!”

  A WINTER NOSEGAY.

  O, WITHER’D winter Blossoms,

  Dowager-flowers, — the December vanity.

  In antiquated visages and bosoms, —

  What are ye plann’d for,

  Unless to stand for

  Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity?

  There is my Quaker Aunt,

  A Paper-flower, — with a formal border

  No breeze could e’er disorder,

  Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry,

  A pucker’d berry;

  And Box, like tough-liv’d annuitant, —

  Verdant alway —

  From quarter-day even to quarter-day;

  And poor old Honesty, as thin as want,

  Well named — God-wot;

  Under the baptism of the water-pot,

  The very apparition of a plant;

  And why,

  Dost hold thy head so high,

  Old Winter-Daisy: —

  Because thy virtue never was infirm,

  Howe’er thy stalk be crazy?

  That never wanton fly, or blighted worm,

  Made holes in thy most perfect indentation?

  ’Tis likely that sour leaf,

  To garden thief,

  Forcepp’d or wing’d, was never a temptation;

  Well, — still uphold thy wintry reputation;

  Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers’ trial;r />
  And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of

  ours

  Converse with flow’rs,

  Then thou shalt be the token of denial.

  Away! dull weeds,

  Born without beneficial use or needs!

  Fit only to deck out cold winding-sheets;

  And then not for the milkmaid’s funeral bloom,

  Or fait Fidele’s tomb ——

  To tantalise, — vile cheats!

  Some prodigal bee, with hope of after-sweets,

  Frigid, and rigid,

  As if ye never knew

  One drop of dew,

  Or the warm sun resplendent;

  Indifferent of culture and of care,

  Giving no sweets back to the fostering air;

  Churlishly independent —

  I hate ye, of all breeds!

  Yea, all that live so selfishly — to self,

  And not by interchange of kindly deeds-

  Hence! — from my shelf!

  EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP.

  IT was a young maiden went forth to ride,

  And there was a wooer to pace by her side;

  His horse was so little, and hers so high,

  He thought his angel was up in the sky,

  His love was great tho’ his wit was small:

  He bade her ride easy — and that was all.

  The very horses began, to neigh, —

  Because their betters had nought to say.

  They rode by elm and they rode by oak,

  They rode by a church-yard, and then he spoke: —

  “My pretty maiden, if you’ll agree

  You shall always amble through life with me”

  The damsel answer’d him never a word,

  But kick’d the gray mare, and away she spurr’d.

  The wooer still follow’d behind the jade,

  And enjoy’d — like a wooer — the dust she made,

  They rode thro’ moss, and they rode thro’ moor, —

  The gallant behind and the lass before: —

  At last they came to a miry place,

  And there the sad wooer gave up the chase

  Quoth he, “If my nag were better to ride,

  I’d follow her over the world so wide.

  Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail,

  But I’ve lost the last glimpse of the gray mare’s tail!”

  SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

  Cables entangling her,

  Shipspars for mangling her,

  Ropes, sure of strangling her;

  Blocks, over-dangling her;

  Tiller to batter her,

  Topmast to shatter her,

  Tobacco to spatter her;

  Boreas blustering,

  Boatswain quite flustering,

  Thunder-clouds mustering

  To blast her with sulphur —

  If the deep don’t engulf her;

  Sometimes fear’s scrutiny

  Pries out a mutiny,

  Sniffs conflagration,

  Or hints at starvation: —

  All the sea-dangers,

  Buccaneers, rangers,

  Pirates and Sallee-men

  Algerine galleymen,

  Tornadoes and typhons,

  And horrible syphons,

  And submarine travels

  Thro’ roaring sea-navels.

  Everything wrong enough,

  Long-boat not long enough,

  Vessel not strong enough;

  Pitch marring frippery,

  The deck very slippery,

  And the cabin — built sloping,

  The Captain a-toping,

  And the mate a blasphemer,

  That names his Redeemer, —

  With inward uneasiness;

  The cook known, by greasiness,

  The victuals beslubber’d,

  Her bed — in a cupboard;

  Things of strange christening,

  Snatched in her listening,

  Blue lights and red lighs

  And mention of dead-lights,

  And shrouds made a theme of,

  Things horrid to dream of, —

  And buoys in the water

  To fear all exhort her;

  Her friend no Leander,

  Herself no sea-gander,

  And ne’er a cork jacket

  On board of the packet;

  The breeze still a-stiffening,

  The trumpet quite deafening;

  Thoughts of repentance,

  And doomsday and sentence;

  Everything sinister,

  Not a church minister, —

  Pilot a blunderer,

  Coral reefs under her,

  Ready to sunder her;

  Trunks tipsy-topsy,

  The ship in a dropsy;

  Waves oversurging her,

  Sirens, a-dirgeing her;

  Sharks all expecting her,

  Swordfish dissecting her,

  Crabs with their hand-vices

  Punishing land vices;

  Sea-dogs and unicorns,

  Things with no puny horns,

  Mermen carnivorous —

  “Good Lord deliver us!’

  THE STAG-EYED LADY.

  A MOORISH TALE.

  Scheherazade immediately began the following story.

  ALI Ben Ali (did you never read

  His wond’rous acts that chronicles relate, —

  How there was one in pity might exceed

  The Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate

  Upon the throne of greatness — great indeed!

  For those that he had under him were great —

  The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,

  Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses’ tails.

  Ali was cruel — a most cruel one!

  ’Tis rumoured he had strangled his own mother —

  Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,

  ’Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother

  And sister too — but happily that none

  Did live within harm’s length of one another,

  Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze

  To endless night, and shorten’d the Moon’s days.

  Despotic power, that mars a weak man’s wit,

  And makes a bad man — absolutely bad,

  Made Ali wicked — to a fault:— ’tis fit

  Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had

  No curb upon his will — no, not a bit —

  Wherefore he did not reign well — and full glad

  His slaves had been to hang him — but they falter’d

  And let him live unhang’d — and still unalter’d,

  Until he got a sage-bush of a beard,

  Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trail

  Of bristly hair — that, honour’d and unshear’d,

  Grew downward like old women and cow’s tail;

  Being a sign of age — some gray appear’d,

  Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale;

  But yet, not so poetic as when Time

  Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.

  Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex

  His royal bosom that he had no son,

  No living child of the more noble sex,

  To stand in his Morocco shoes — not one

  To make a negro-pollard — or tread necks

  When he was gone — doom’d, when his days were done,

  To leave the very city of his fame

  Without an Ali to keep up his name.

  Therefore he chose a lady for his love,

  Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear;

  So call’d, because her lustrous eyes, above

  All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear;

  Then, through his Muftis piously he strove,

  And drumm’d with proxy-prayers Mohammed’s ear:

  Knowing a boy for certain must come of it,

  Or else he w
as not praying to his Profit.

  Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair

  Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame:

  Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir,

  Boy’d up his hopes, and even chose a name

  Of mighty hero that his child should bear;

  He made so certain ere his chicken came: —

  But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,

  Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth.

  To-morrow came, and with to-morrow’s sun

  A little daughter to this world of sins, —

  Miss-fortunes never come alone — so one

  Brought on another, like a pair of twins:

  Twins! female twins! — it was enough to stun

  Their little wits and scare them from their skins

  To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear,

  Pulling his beard because he had no heir.

  Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down

  This his paternal rage, and thus addrest;

  “Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown,

  And box the compass of the royal chest?”

  “Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own

  I love to gaze on! — Pr’ythee, thou hadst best

  Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin

  Your beard, you’ll want a wig upon your chin!”

  But not her words, nor e’en her tears, could slack

  The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew:

  He call’d his slave to bring an ample sack

  Wherein a woman might be poked — a few

  Dark grimly men felt pity and look’d black

  At this sad order; but their slaveships knew

  When any dared demur, his sword so bending

  Cut off the “head and front of their offending.”

  For Ali had a sword, much like himself,

  A crooked blade, guilty of human gore —

  The trophies it had lopp’d from many an elf

  Were struck at his head-quarters by the score —

  Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf,

  But jested with it, and his wit cut sore;

  So that (as they of Public Houses speak)

  He often did his dozen butts a week.

  Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears,