NO!

No sun—no moon!
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no "t'other side the way"—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the Crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognitions of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing 'em—
No knowing 'em!
No travelling at all—no locomotion,
No inkling of the way—no notion—
"No go"—by land or ocean—
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!
Thomas Hood.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.
"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her,—
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."
"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, "Gee woe!"
Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see;"
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,
"What a hard-ship that must be!
"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But, O!—I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."
Now Ben had sailed to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she got on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
"O, Sally Brown, O, Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!"
Then reading on his 'bacco-box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.
Thomas Hood.

TIM TURPIN

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
And ne'er had seen the skies:
For Nature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.
So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
Poor Tim was forced to do,—
Look out for pupils, for he had
A vacancy for two.
There's some have specs to help their sight
Of objects dim and small;
But Tim had specks within his eyes,
And could not see at all.
Now Tim he wooed a servant maid,
And took her to his arms;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.
By day she led him up and down
Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, although she led
The life of any dog.
But just when Tim had lived a month
In honey with his wife,
A surgeon oped his Milton eyes,
Like oysters, with a knife.
But when his eyes were opened thus,
He wished them dark again;
For when he looked upon his wife,
He saw her very plain.
Her face was bad, her figure worse,
He couldn't bear to eat;
For she was anything but like
A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man:
For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for everything,—
But that was with a stick.
So, with a cudgel in his hand,—
It was not light or slim,—
He knocked at his wife's head until
It opened unto him.
And when the corpse was stiff and cold,
He took his slaughtered spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all
The ashes of her house.
But, like a wicked murderer,
He lived in constant fear
From day to day, and so he cut
His throat from ear to ear.
The neighbors fetched a doctor in:
Said he, "This wound I dread
Can hardly be sewed up,—his life
Is hanging on a thread."
But when another week was gone,
He gave him stronger hope,—
Instead of hanging on a thread,
Of hanging on a rope.
Ah! when he hid his bloody work,
In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out!
But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap
Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact,
Were sworn that very day;
But though they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.
Said Tim unto those jurymen,
"You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself, at once,
The author of her death.
"And O, when I reflect upon
The blood that I have spilt,
Just like a button is my soul,
Inscribed with double guilt!"
Then turning round his head again
He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,
The judges of a-size!
The great judge took his judgment-cap,
And put it on his head,
And sentenced Tim by law to hang
Till he was three times dead.
So he was tried, and he was hung
(Fit punishment for such)
On Horsham drop, and none can say
It was a drop too much.
Thomas Hood.