The Comic Poems of Thomas Hood: A New and Complete EditionHood, Thomas
General
The Comic Poems of Thomas Hood: A New and Complete Edition
Hood, Thomas
English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor
These facts being found and set in order
By grave M.D.’s beyond the Border,
To make them for some months eternal,
Were enter’d monthly in a journal,
That many a northern sage still writes in,
And throws his little Northern Lights in,
And proves and proves about the phrenos,
A great deal more than I or he knows.
How Music suffers, _par exemple_,
By wearing tight hats round the temple;
What ills great boxers have to fear
From blisters put behind the ear:
And how a porter’s Veneration
Is hurt by porter’s occupation:
Whether shillelaghs in reality
May deaden Individuality:
Or tongs and poker be creative
Of alterations in the Amative:
If falls from scaffolds make us less
Inclin’d to all Constructiveness:
With more such matters, all applying
To heads--and therefore _head_ifying.
A SAILOR’S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.
There’s some is born with their straight legs by natur--
And some is born with bow-legs from the first--
And some that should have grow’d a good deal straighter,
But they were badly nurs’d,
And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs
Astride of casks and kegs:
I’ve got myself a sort of bow to larboard,
And starboard,
And this is what it was that warp’d my legs.--
’Twas all along of Poll, as I may say,
That foul’d my cable when I ought to slip;
But on the tenth of May,
When I gets under weigh,
Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship,
I sees the mail
Get under sail,
The only one there was to make the trip.
Well--I gives chase,
But as she run
Two knots to one,
There warn’t no use in keeping on the race!
Well--casting round about, what next to try on,
And how to spin,
I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,
And bears away to leeward for the inn,
Beats round the gable,
And fetches up before the coach-horse stable:
Well--there they stand, four kickers in a row,
And so
I just makes free to cut a brown ‘un’s cable.
But riding isn’t in a seaman’s natur--
So I whips out a toughish end of yarn,
And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter
To splice me, heel to heel,
Under the she-mare’s keel,
And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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