Thomas Hood.
(Continued from Part 12 )
The Night “Comp.”
With fingers weary and worn,
Eyelids heavy and red,
A “comp.” stood at his frame all night,
Picking up “stamps” for bread.
Full-point, comma, and rule,
Colon, and quad, and space,
“Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line,
Dozing awhile at his “case.”
“Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.”
“Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that;
Matter all solid, never a “break;”
Oh! for a trifle of “fat!”
Moon peeping in through the pane;
Gas, with its dull yellow glare;
Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,”
And the Editor’s foot on the stair.
One o’clock! two o’clock chimed!
“Proofs,” coming up again, “read;”
Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here;
Trudge away homeward to bed.
Anonymous.
The Song of the Dirt.
(Covent Garden Market, August, 1884)
With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market day
With a footfall’s dreary thud—
Splash, splash, splash!
While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”
Splash, splash, splash!
From morn to even-time,
Splash, splash, splash!
Through garbage, filth and grime.
Stenches strong in the street,
Streets with stenches strong,
As over the flags I gingerly creep,
I wonder to whom they belong.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the man far away in the rear,
But I’m forced to hold my nose,
For I must with such odours near.
Oh! but for one short hour
An appetite good to feel!
I formerly used my dinner to want,
But a walk now costs a meal.
With boots all dirty and worn,
And trousers heavy with mud,
A Londoner trudged on a market-day
With a footfall’s dreary thud.
Splash, splash, splash!
While garbage may spatter and spirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—
Would that its cry could reach the rich—
He sang “The Song of the Dirt.”
Punch, August 23, 1884.
I Remember, I Remember.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led;
She didn’t come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,—
That man is single yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:—
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—
I’m not so anxious now!
I remember, I remember,
My dear one’s smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn’t got!
Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey,
Boston, United States, 1854.
The first number of Truth, which appeared January 4, 1877, contained a long parody, signed by Thomas Hood. This, of course, was Tom Hood, the Editor of Fun, and son of the author of the original “I Remember.”
I remember, I remember,
The house—’twas Clunn’s Hotel,
The friends who knocked me up at eight,
I recollect as well;
They never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
For liquor flowed from when they came
Till when they went away.
I remember, remember,
The “brandies”—large and small—
The Chablis and the Veuve Clicquot,
The sodas split by all;
The caraffe at my bedside set,
With cognac well filled up—
And what a time it took to mix
The primal champagne cup.
(Here five verses are omitted).
I remember, I remember,—
Last and fresh this memory comes,—
They brought hot pickle sandwiches,
Which filled my bed with crumbs;
It was a heated taste I own;
But brandy’s apt to cloy,
Unless you pick your palate up
With devilled eggs and soy.
Thomas Hood.
What it May Come to.
I remember, I remember,
The House where I was bred;
The Woolsack, whence the Chancellor
That annual Message read.
He never came till after four,
And rarely stayed till five;
For, if their dinners were delayed,
Could Senators survive?
I remember, I remember,
The Marquises and Earls,
The peerless rows of Peeresses,
Those flowers decked in pearls.
The cross-bench, where the Princes sat;
And where the Prelates shone
In piety and lawn arrayed—
The Bishops now are gone!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to spout,
And thought the papers must be mad
To leave my speeches out.
My eloquence was practised then,
That now is left to rust;
And Statesmen oft, I’m sure, have winced
Before my boyish thrust!
I remember, I remember,
The Commons trooping in;
I used to think that in a fight
The Peers must always win.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m kicked out of the House
I sat in when a boy!
Punch, September 6, 1884.
An imitation of Hood’s Dream of Eugene Aram was published in Truth, February 22, 1877. Its twenty-six verses were descriptive of the sorrows of a poor orphan girl on leaving the Wanstead Home to go into service:—
’Tis in the prime of summer-time,
A sunny morn in May,
And scores of merry maidens cease
A moment from their play;
For from their Happy Wanstead Home,
A girl is going that day.
* * * * *
A still more melancholy poem, in imitation of the same original, appeared in Truth, July 19, 1877. This was entitled The Blue-coat Boy’s Ghost, and described, in twenty-seven verses, the horrible manner in which a poor lad, named Arthur Gibbes, had been killed in Christ’s Hospital. A public investigation was held, and the result showed that a brutal system of fagging was in full force in the school, and that scarcely any supervision was exercised over the elder boys.
“Meeting in the Boudoir; or, a Song of the Follies of Fashion,” which appeared in Truth, June 24, 1880, was a long parody of Hood’s Song of the Shirt, in fourteen verses.
“The Lost Child, or Russell’s lament on the loss of his Reform Bill,” a long, political parody of Hood’s Lost Child, appeared in Punch, February 16, 1867.
