The works of Thomas Hood Comic and serious: In prose and verse. Edited, with notes, by his son |
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 | The works of Thomas Hood |  |
12
UP THE RHINE
[Verse extracted from prose narrative.]
[Continued.]
THE KNIGHT AND THE DRAGON.
In the famous old times,
(Famed for chivalrous crimes)
As the legends of Rhineland deliver,
Once there flourished a Knight,
Who Sir Otto was hight,
On the banks of the rapid green river!
(Famed for chivalrous crimes)
As the legends of Rhineland deliver,
Once there flourished a Knight,
Who Sir Otto was hight,
On the banks of the rapid green river!
On the Drachenfels' crest
He had built a stone nest,
From which he pounced down like a vulture,
And with talons of steel
Out of every man's meal
Took a very extortionate multure.
He had built a stone nest,
From which he pounced down like a vulture,
And with talons of steel
Out of every man's meal
Took a very extortionate multure.
Yet he lived in good fame,
With a nobleman's name,
As “Your High-and-well-born” address'd daily—
Though Judge Park in his wig
Would have deemed him a prig,
Or a cracksman, if tried at th' Old Bailey.
With a nobleman's name,
As “Your High-and-well-born” address'd daily—
Though Judge Park in his wig
Would have deemed him a prig,
Or a cracksman, if tried at th' Old Bailey.
It is strange—very strange!
How opinions will change!—
How antiquity blazons and hallows
Both the man, and the crime,
That a less lapse of time
Would commend to the hulks or the gallows!
How opinions will change!—
13
Both the man, and the crime,
That a less lapse of time
Would commend to the hulks or the gallows!
Thus enthrall'd by Romance,
In a mystified trance,
E'en a young, mild, and merciful woman
Will recal with delight
The wild keep, and its Knight,
Who was quite as much tiger as human!
In a mystified trance,
E'en a young, mild, and merciful woman
Will recal with delight
The wild keep, and its Knight,
Who was quite as much tiger as human!
Now it chanced on a day,
In the sweet month of May,
From his casement Sir Otto was gazing,
With his sword in the sheath,
At that prospect beneath,
Which our tourists declare so amazing!
In the sweet month of May,
From his casement Sir Otto was gazing,
With his sword in the sheath,
At that prospect beneath,
Which our tourists declare so amazing!
Yes—he gazed on the Rhine,
And its banks, so divine;
Yet with no admiration or wonder,
But the goût of a thief,
As a more modern chief
Looked on London, and cried “What a plunder!”
And its banks, so divine;
Yet with no admiration or wonder,
But the goût of a thief,
As a more modern chief
Looked on London, and cried “What a plunder!”
From that river so fast,
From that champaign so vast,
He collected rare tribute and presents;
Water-rates from ships' loads,
Highway-rates on the roads,
And hard poor-rates from all the poor peasants!
From that champaign so vast,
He collected rare tribute and presents;
Water-rates from ships' loads,
Highway-rates on the roads,
And hard poor-rates from all the poor peasants!
14
When behold! round the base
Of his strong dwelling-place,
Only gained by most toilsome progression,
He perceived a full score
Of the rustics, or more,
Winding up in a sort of procession!
Of his strong dwelling-place,
Only gained by most toilsome progression,
He perceived a full score
Of the rustics, or more,
Winding up in a sort of procession!
“Keep them out!” the Knight cried,
To the warders outside—
But the hound at his feet gave a grumble!
And in scrambled the knaves,
Like feudality's slaves,
With all forms that are servile and humble.
To the warders outside—
But the hound at his feet gave a grumble!
And in scrambled the knaves,
Like feudality's slaves,
With all forms that are servile and humble.
“Now for boorish complaints!
Grant me patience, ye Saints!”
Cried the Knight, turning red as a mullet;
When the baldest old man
Thus his story began,
With a guttural croak in his gullet!
Grant me patience, ye Saints!”
Cried the Knight, turning red as a mullet;
When the baldest old man
Thus his story began,
With a guttural croak in his gullet!
“Lord supreme of our lives,
Of our daughters, our wives,
Our she-cousins, our sons, and their spouses,
Of our sisters and aunts,
Of the babies God grants,
Of the handmaids that dwell in our houses!
Of our daughters, our wives,
Our she-cousins, our sons, and their spouses,
Of our sisters and aunts,
Of the babies God grants,
Of the handmaids that dwell in our houses!
“Mighty master of all
We possess, great or small,
Of our cattle, our sows, and their farrows;
Of our mares and their colts,
Of our crofts, and our holts,
Of our ploughs, of our wains, and our harrows!
We possess, great or small,
Of our cattle, our sows, and their farrows;
15
Of our crofts, and our holts,
Of our ploughs, of our wains, and our harrows!
“Noble Lord of the soil,
Of its corn and its oil,
Of its wine, only fit for such gentles!
Of our cream and sour-kraut,
Of our carp and our trout,
Our black bread, and black puddings, and lentils!
Of its corn and its oil,
Of its wine, only fit for such gentles!
Of our cream and sour-kraut,
Of our carp and our trout,
Our black bread, and black puddings, and lentils!
“Sovran Lord of our cheese,
And whatever you please—
Of our bacon, our eggs, and our butter,
Of our backs and our polls,
Of our bodies and souls—
O give ear to the woes that we utter!
And whatever you please—
Of our bacon, our eggs, and our butter,
Of our backs and our polls,
Of our bodies and souls—
O give ear to the woes that we utter!
“We are truly perplex'd,
We are frighted and vex'd,
Till the strings of our hearts are all twisted;
We are ruined and curst
By the fiercest and worst
Of all robbers that ever existed!”
We are frighted and vex'd,
Till the strings of our hearts are all twisted;
We are ruined and curst
By the fiercest and worst
Of all robbers that ever existed!”
“Now by Heav'n and this light!”
In a rage cried the Knight,
“For this speech all your bodies shall stiffen!
What! by Peasants miscall'd!”
Quoth the man that was bald,
“Not your Honour we mean, but a Griffin.
In a rage cried the Knight,
“For this speech all your bodies shall stiffen!
What! by Peasants miscall'd!”
Quoth the man that was bald,
“Not your Honour we mean, but a Griffin.
16
“For our herds and our flocks
He lays wait in the rocks,
And jumps forth without giving us warning;
Two poor wethers, right fat,
And four lambs after that,
Did he swallow this very May morning!”
He lays wait in the rocks,
And jumps forth without giving us warning;
Two poor wethers, right fat,
And four lambs after that,
Did he swallow this very May morning!”
Then the High-and-well-born
Gave a laugh as in scorn,
“Is the Griffin indeed such a glutton?
Let him eat up the rams,
And the lambs, and theirs dams—
If I hate any meat, it is mutton!”
Gave a laugh as in scorn,
“Is the Griffin indeed such a glutton?
Let him eat up the rams,
And the lambs, and theirs dams—
If I hate any meat, it is mutton!”
“Nay, your Worship,” said then
The most bald of old men,
“For a sheep we would hardly thus cavil,
If the merciless Beast
Did not oftentimes feast
On the Pilgrims, and people that travel.”
The most bald of old men,
“For a sheep we would hardly thus cavil,
If the merciless Beast
Did not oftentimes feast
On the Pilgrims, and people that travel.”
“Feast on what,” cried the Knight,
Whilst his eye glisten'd bright
With the most diabolical flashes—
“Does the Beast dare to prey
On the road and highway?
With our proper diversion that clashes!”
Whilst his eye glisten'd bright
With the most diabolical flashes—
“Does the Beast dare to prey
On the road and highway?
With our proper diversion that clashes!”
“Yea, 'tis so, and far worse,”
Said the Clown, “to our curse;
For by way of a snack or a tiffin,
Every week in the year
Sure as Sundays appear,
A young virgin is thrown to the Griffin!”
Said the Clown, “to our curse;
For by way of a snack or a tiffin,
17
Sure as Sundays appear,
A young virgin is thrown to the Griffin!”
“Ha! Saint Peter! Saint Mark!”
Roar'd the Knight, frowning dark,
With an oath that was awful and bitter:
“A young maid to his dish!
Why, what more could he wish,
If the Beast were High-born, and a Ritter!
Roar'd the Knight, frowning dark,
With an oath that was awful and bitter:
“A young maid to his dish!
Why, what more could he wish,
If the Beast were High-born, and a Ritter!
“Now, by this our good brand,
And by this our right hand,
By the badge that is borne on our banners,
If we can but once meet
With the monster's retreat,
We will teach him to poach on our manors!”
And by this our right hand,
By the badge that is borne on our banners,
If we can but once meet
With the monster's retreat,
We will teach him to poach on our manors!”
Quite content with this vow,
With a scrape and a bow,
The glad peasants went home to their flagons,
Where they tippled so deep,
That each clown in his sleep
Dreamt of killing a legion of dragons!
With a scrape and a bow,
The glad peasants went home to their flagons,
Where they tippled so deep,
That each clown in his sleep
Dreamt of killing a legion of dragons!
Thus engaged, the bold Knight
Soon prepared for the fight
With the wily and scaly marauder;
But, ere battle began,
Like a good Christian man,
First he put all his household in order.
Soon prepared for the fight
With the wily and scaly marauder;
But, ere battle began,
Like a good Christian man,
First he put all his household in order.
18
“Double bolted and barr'd
Let each gate have a guard”—
(Thus his rugged Lieutenant was bidden)
“And be sure, without fault,
No one enters the vault
Where the Church's gold vessels are hidden.
Let each gate have a guard”—
(Thus his rugged Lieutenant was bidden)
“And be sure, without fault,
No one enters the vault
Where the Church's gold vessels are hidden.
“In the dark oubliette
Let yon merchant forget
That he e'er had a bark richly laden—
And that desperate youth,
Our own rival forsooth!
Just indulge with a kiss of the Maiden!
Let yon merchant forget
That he e'er had a bark richly laden—
And that desperate youth,
Our own rival forsooth!
Just indulge with a kiss of the Maiden!
“Crush the thumbs of the Jew
With the vice and the screw,
Till he tells where he buried his treasure;
And deliver our word
To yon sullen caged bird,
That to-night she must sing for our pleasure!”
With the vice and the screw,
Till he tells where he buried his treasure;
And deliver our word
To yon sullen caged bird,
That to-night she must sing for our pleasure!”
Thereupon, cap-à-pie,
As a champion should be,
With the bald-headed peasant to guide him,
On his war-horse he bounds,
And then, whistling his hounds,
Prances off to what fate may betide him!
As a champion should be,
With the bald-headed peasant to guide him,
On his war-horse he bounds,
And then, whistling his hounds,
Prances off to what fate may betide him!
Nor too long do they seek,
Ere a horrible reek,
Like the fumes from some villanous tavern,
Set the dogs on the snuff,
For they scent well enough
The foul monster coil'd up in his cavern!
Ere a horrible reek,
Like the fumes from some villanous tavern,
19
For they scent well enough
The foul monster coil'd up in his cavern!
Then alighting with speed
From his terrified steed,
Which he ties to a tree for the present,
With his sword ready drawn,
Strides the Ritter High-born,
And along with him drags the scared peasant!
From his terrified steed,
Which he ties to a tree for the present,
With his sword ready drawn,
Strides the Ritter High-born,
And along with him drags the scared peasant!
“O Sir Knight, good Sir Knight!
I am near enough quite—
I have shown you the beast and his grotto:”
But before he can reach
Any farther in speech,
He is stricken stone-dead by Sir Otto!
I am near enough quite—
I have shown you the beast and his grotto:”
But before he can reach
Any farther in speech,
He is stricken stone-dead by Sir Otto!
Who withdrawing himself
To a high rocky shelf,
Sees the monster his tail disentangle
From each tortuous coil,
With a sudden turmoil,
And rush forth the dead peasant to mangle.
To a high rocky shelf,
Sees the monster his tail disentangle
From each tortuous coil,
With a sudden turmoil,
And rush forth the dead peasant to mangle.
With his terrible claws,
And his horrible jaws,
He soon moulds the warm corse to a jelly;
Which he quickly sucks in
To his own wicked skin
And then sinks at full stretch on his belly.
And his horrible jaws,
He soon moulds the warm corse to a jelly;
Which he quickly sucks in
To his own wicked skin
And then sinks at full stretch on his belly.
20
Then the Knight softly goes
On the tips of his toes
To the greedy and slumbering savage,
And with one hearty stroke
Of his sword, and a poke,
Kills the beast that had made such a ravage.
On the tips of his toes
To the greedy and slumbering savage,
And with one hearty stroke
Of his sword, and a poke,
Kills the beast that had made such a ravage.
So, extended at length,
Without motion or strength,
That gorged serpent they call the constrictor,
After dinner, while deep
In lethargical sleep,
Falls a prey to his Hottentot victor.
Without motion or strength,
That gorged serpent they call the constrictor,
After dinner, while deep
In lethargical sleep,
Falls a prey to his Hottentot victor.
“'Twas too easy by half!”
Said the Knight with a laugh;
“But as nobody witness'd the slaughter,
I will swear, knock and knock,
By Saint Winifred's clock,
We were at it three hours and a quarter!”
Said the Knight with a laugh;
“But as nobody witness'd the slaughter,
I will swear, knock and knock,
By Saint Winifred's clock,
We were at it three hours and a quarter!”
Then he chopped off the head
Of the monster so dread,
Which he tied to his horse as a trophy;
And, with hounds, by the same
Ragged path that he came,
Home he jogg'd proud as Sultan or Sophi!
Of the monster so dread,
Which he tied to his horse as a trophy;
And, with hounds, by the same
Ragged path that he came,
Home he jogg'd proud as Sultan or Sophi!
Blessed Saints! what a rout
When the news flew about,
And the carcase was fetch'd in a waggon;
What an outcry rose wild
From man, woman, and child—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
When the news flew about,
And the carcase was fetch'd in a waggon;
21
From man, woman, and child—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
All that night the thick walls
Of the Knight's feudal halls
Rang with shouts for the wine-cup and flagon;
Whilst the vassals stood by,
And repeated the cry—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
Of the Knight's feudal halls
Rang with shouts for the wine-cup and flagon;
Whilst the vassals stood by,
And repeated the cry—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
The next night, and the next,
Still the fight was the text,
'Twas a theme for the minstrels to brag on!
And the vassals' hoarse throats
Still re-echoed the notes—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
Still the fight was the text,
'Twas a theme for the minstrels to brag on!
And the vassals' hoarse throats
Still re-echoed the notes—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
There was never such work
Since the days of King Stork,
When he lived with the Frogs at free quarters;
Not to name the invites
That were sent down of nights,
To the villagers' wives and their daughters!
Since the days of King Stork,
When he lived with the Frogs at free quarters;
Not to name the invites
That were sent down of nights,
To the villagers' wives and their daughters!
It was feast upon feast,
For good cheer never ceased,
And a foray replenish'd the flagon;
And the vassals stood by,
But more weak was the cry—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
For good cheer never ceased,
And a foray replenish'd the flagon;
And the vassals stood by,
But more weak was the cry—
“Live Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
22
Down again sank the sun,
Nor were revels yet done—
But as if ev'ry mouth had a gag on,
Though the vassals stood round,
Deuce a word or a sound
Of “Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
Nor were revels yet done—
But as if ev'ry mouth had a gag on,
Though the vassals stood round,
Deuce a word or a sound
Of “Sir Otto, who vanquish'd the Dragon!”
There was feasting aloft,
But through pillage so oft
Down below there was wailing and hunger;
And affection ran cold,
And the food of the old,
It was wolfishly snatch'd by the younger!
But through pillage so oft
Down below there was wailing and hunger;
And affection ran cold,
And the food of the old,
It was wolfishly snatch'd by the younger!
Mad with troubles so vast,
Where's the wonder at last
If the peasants quite alter'd their motto?—
And with one loud accord
Cried out “Would to the Lord,
That the Dragon had vanquish'd Sir Otto!”
Where's the wonder at last
If the peasants quite alter'd their motto?—
And with one loud accord
Cried out “Would to the Lord,
That the Dragon had vanquish'd Sir Otto!”
41
OUR LADY'S CHAPEL.
A LEGEND OF COBLENZ.
Whoe'er has cross'd the Mósel Bridge,
And mounted by the fort of Kaiser Franz,
Has seen, perchance,
Just on the summit of St. Peter's ridge,
A little open chapel to the right,
Wherein the tapers aye are burning bright;
So popular, indeed, this holy shrine,
At least among the female population,
By night, or at high noon, you see it shine,
A very Missal for illumination!
And mounted by the fort of Kaiser Franz,
Has seen, perchance,
Just on the summit of St. Peter's ridge,
A little open chapel to the right,
Wherein the tapers aye are burning bright;
So popular, indeed, this holy shrine,
At least among the female population,
By night, or at high noon, you see it shine,
A very Missal for illumination!
Yet, when you please, at morn or eve, go by
All other Chapels, standing in the fields,
Whose mouldy, wifeless husbandry but yields
Beans, peas, potatoes, mangel-wurzel, rye,
And lo! the Virgin, lonely, dark, and hush,
Without the glimmer of a farthing rush!
But on Saint Peter's Hill
The lights are burning, burning, burning still.
In fact, it is a pretty retail trade
To furnish forth the candles ready made;
And close beside the chapel and the way,
A chandler, at her stall, sits day by day,
And sells, both long and short, the waxen tapers
Smarten'd with tinsel-foil and tinted papers.
All other Chapels, standing in the fields,
Whose mouldy, wifeless husbandry but yields
Beans, peas, potatoes, mangel-wurzel, rye,
And lo! the Virgin, lonely, dark, and hush,
Without the glimmer of a farthing rush!
42
The lights are burning, burning, burning still.
In fact, it is a pretty retail trade
To furnish forth the candles ready made;
And close beside the chapel and the way,
A chandler, at her stall, sits day by day,
And sells, both long and short, the waxen tapers
Smarten'd with tinsel-foil and tinted papers.
To give of the mysterious truth an inkling,
Those who in this bright chapel breathe a prayer
To “Unser Frow,” and burn a taper there,
Are said to get a husband “in a twinkling:”
Just as she-glowworms, if it be not scandal,
Catch partners with their matrimonial candle.
Those who in this bright chapel breathe a prayer
To “Unser Frow,” and burn a taper there,
Are said to get a husband “in a twinkling:”
Just as she-glowworms, if it be not scandal,
Catch partners with their matrimonial candle.
How kind of blessed saints in heaven—
Where none in marriage, we are told, are given—
To interfere below in making matches,
And help old maidens to connubial catches!
The truth is, that instead of looking smugly
(At least, so whisper wags satirical)
The votaries are all so old and ugly,
No man could fall in love but by a miracle.
Where none in marriage, we are told, are given—
To interfere below in making matches,
And help old maidens to connubial catches!
The truth is, that instead of looking smugly
(At least, so whisper wags satirical)
The votaries are all so old and ugly,
No man could fall in love but by a miracle.
However, that such waxen gifts and vows
Are sometimes for the purpose efficacious,
In helping to a spouse,
Is vouch'd for by a story most veracious.
Are sometimes for the purpose efficacious,
In helping to a spouse,
Is vouch'd for by a story most veracious.
A certain Woman, though in name a wife,
Yet doom'd to lonely life,
Her truant husband having been away
Nine years, two months, a week, and half a day,—
Without remembrances by words or deeds,—
Began to think she had sufficient handle
To talk of widowhood and burn her weeds—
Of course with a wax-candle.
Sick, single-handed with the world to grapple,
Weary of solitude, and spleen, and vapours,
Away she hurried to Our Lady's Chapel,
Full-handed with two tapers—
And pray'd as she had never pray'd before,
To be a bonâ fide wife once more.
“Oh Holy Virgin! listen to my prayer!
And for sweet mercy, and thy sex's sake,
Accept the vows and offerings I make—
Others set up one light, but here's a pair!”
Yet doom'd to lonely life,
43
Nine years, two months, a week, and half a day,—
Without remembrances by words or deeds,—
Began to think she had sufficient handle
To talk of widowhood and burn her weeds—
Of course with a wax-candle.
Sick, single-handed with the world to grapple,
Weary of solitude, and spleen, and vapours,
Away she hurried to Our Lady's Chapel,
Full-handed with two tapers—
And pray'd as she had never pray'd before,
To be a bonâ fide wife once more.
“Oh Holy Virgin! listen to my prayer!
And for sweet mercy, and thy sex's sake,
Accept the vows and offerings I make—
Others set up one light, but here's a pair!”
Her prayer, it seem'd, was heard;
For in three little weeks, exactly reckon'd,
As blithe as any bird,
She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second;—
A fact that made her gratitude so hearty,
To “Unser Frow,” and her propitious shrine,
She sent two waxen candles superfine,
Long enough for a Lapland evening party!
For in three little weeks, exactly reckon'd,
As blithe as any bird,
She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second;—
A fact that made her gratitude so hearty,
To “Unser Frow,” and her propitious shrine,
She sent two waxen candles superfine,
Long enough for a Lapland evening party!
Rich was the Wedding Feast and rare—
What sausages were there!
Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut:
With plenteous liquors to wash down good cheer
Brantwein, and Rhum, Kirsch-wasser, and Krug Bier,
And wine so sharp that ev'ry one was cut.
Rare was the feast—but rarer was the quality
Of mirth, of smoky-joke, and song, and toast,—
When just in all the middle of their jollity—
With bumpers fill'd to hostess and to host,
And all the unborn branches of their house,
Unwelcome and unask'd, like Banquo's Ghost,
In walk'd the long-lost Spouse!
What sausages were there!
Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut:
With plenteous liquors to wash down good cheer
Brantwein, and Rhum, Kirsch-wasser, and Krug Bier,
And wine so sharp that ev'ry one was cut.
44
Of mirth, of smoky-joke, and song, and toast,—
When just in all the middle of their jollity—
With bumpers fill'd to hostess and to host,
And all the unborn branches of their house,
Unwelcome and unask'd, like Banquo's Ghost,
In walk'd the long-lost Spouse!
What pen could ever paint
The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted!
The bridesmaids fitfully began to faint;
The bridesmen stared—some whistled and some grunted:
Fierce Hans the First look'd like a boar that's hunted;
Poor Hans the Second like a suckling calf:
Meanwhile, confounded by the double miracle,
The two-fold bride sobb'd out, with tears hysterical,
“Oh Holy Virgin, you're too good—by half!”
The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted!
The bridesmaids fitfully began to faint;
The bridesmen stared—some whistled and some grunted:
Fierce Hans the First look'd like a boar that's hunted;
Poor Hans the Second like a suckling calf:
Meanwhile, confounded by the double miracle,
The two-fold bride sobb'd out, with tears hysterical,
“Oh Holy Virgin, you're too good—by half!”
MORAL.
Ye Cóblenz maids, take warning by the rhyme,And as our Christian laws forbid polygamy
For fear of bigamy,
Only light up one taper at a time.
LOVE LANGUAGE OF A MERRY YOUNG SOLDIER.
“Ach, Gretchen, mein Täubchen.”
O Gretel, my Dove, my heart's Trumpet,
My Cannon, my Big Drum, and also my Musket,
O hear me, my mild little Dove,
In your still little room.
My Cannon, my Big Drum, and also my Musket,
O hear me, my mild little Dove,
In your still little room.
Your portrait, my Gretel, is always on guard,
Is always attentive to Love's parole and watchword;
Your picture is always going the rounds,
My Gretel, I call at every hour!
Is always attentive to Love's parole and watchword;
Your picture is always going the rounds,
My Gretel, I call at every hour!
My heart's knapsack is always full of you;
My looks, they are quartered with you;
And when I bite off the top end of a cartridge,
Then I think that I give you a kiss.
My looks, they are quartered with you;
And when I bite off the top end of a cartridge,
Then I think that I give you a kiss.
You alone are my Word of Command and orders,
Yea, my Right-face, Left-face, Brown Tommy, and wine,
And at the word of command “Shoulder Arms!”
Then I think you say “Take me in your arms.”
Yea, my Right-face, Left-face, Brown Tommy, and wine,
And at the word of command “Shoulder Arms!”
Then I think you say “Take me in your arms.”
Your eyes sparkle like a Battery,
Yea, they wound like Bombs and Grenades;
As black as gunpowder is your hair,
Your hand as white as Parading breeches!
Yea, they wound like Bombs and Grenades;
As black as gunpowder is your hair,
Your hand as white as Parading breeches!
Yes, you are the Match and I am the Cannon;
Have pity, my love, and give quarter,
And give the word of command, “Wheel round
Into my heart's Barrack Yard.”
Have pity, my love, and give quarter,
And give the word of command, “Wheel round
Into my heart's Barrack Yard.”
| The works of Thomas Hood | |