 | The Ingoldsby Lyrics |  |
The Hat;
OR, THE MARCH OF INTELLECT.
In Anna's days the Moral Wight
Might say, “Whatever is, is right;”
In these our times the Poet's song
Must be, “Whatever is, is wrong.”
Old, Young, Grave, Gay, throughout the nation
The cry is still for alteration:
Change all our aim, and only jealous
To prove ourselves much wiser fellows
Than all who yet have gone before us,
“Change!” is the universal chorus.
There's a tradition—shall I tell't?—
That Sam, who first invented felt,
And form'd that glorious thing, a Hat,
Wove all the brim on't hanging flat,
And this at once secured his claim
To his soul's dearest wish, a Name:
He died, and left his Hat so rare,
All round and flapp'd, to John his heir.
Might say, “Whatever is, is right;”
In these our times the Poet's song
Must be, “Whatever is, is wrong.”
Old, Young, Grave, Gay, throughout the nation
The cry is still for alteration:
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To prove ourselves much wiser fellows
Than all who yet have gone before us,
“Change!” is the universal chorus.
There's a tradition—shall I tell't?—
That Sam, who first invented felt,
And form'd that glorious thing, a Hat,
Wove all the brim on't hanging flat,
And this at once secured his claim
To his soul's dearest wish, a Name:
He died, and left his Hat so rare,
All round and flapp'd, to John his heir.
Now, John, a man both nice and wise,
Thought the brim dangling in his eyes
Plagued him, and baulked both bite and sup,
So with a pin cock'd one side up;
The neighbouring gossips stand and chat,
“What an improvement in the Hat!”
John died, and left his Hat so rare
Thus cockt up to Fitz-John his heir.
Thought the brim dangling in his eyes
Plagued him, and baulked both bite and sup,
So with a pin cock'd one side up;
The neighbouring gossips stand and chat,
“What an improvement in the Hat!”
John died, and left his Hat so rare
Thus cockt up to Fitz-John his heir.
Fitz, though he view'd it with delight,
Thought there was something not quite right,
And in a trice, sagacious he,
Instead of one side, cocks up three;
His genius all with rapture own
“Such talent ne'er before was known!
Fitz-John shall be renown'd in story,
A shining light—his Country's Glory!”
He went abroad, and gave his Hat,
Three-corner'd, to his cousin Pat.
Thought there was something not quite right,
And in a trice, sagacious he,
Instead of one side, cocks up three;
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“Such talent ne'er before was known!
Fitz-John shall be renown'd in story,
A shining light—his Country's Glory!”
He went abroad, and gave his Hat,
Three-corner'd, to his cousin Pat.
Patrick admires his new chapeau,
Yet thinks it not quite comme il faut;
“The colour's bad—now for some knack
To change it. Zounds! I'll dye it black!”
“Oh, happy thought!” the people roar,
Who all saw farther than before;
“White hats? Pooh! nonsense! look at that,
Black—black's the colour for a Hat!”
Pat left, upon his dying bed,
His black Hat to his nephew Ned.
Yet thinks it not quite comme il faut;
“The colour's bad—now for some knack
To change it. Zounds! I'll dye it black!”
“Oh, happy thought!” the people roar,
Who all saw farther than before;
“White hats? Pooh! nonsense! look at that,
Black—black's the colour for a Hat!”
Pat left, upon his dying bed,
His black Hat to his nephew Ned.
Edward exclaims, “Smart, I declare,
A little, though, the worse for wear.
Here in the crown 'tis brown and tann'd;
I shall clap on a silken band.”
No sooner seen, the applauding crew
Shout with delight, “The Hat's grown new!
What mortal underneath the sun
Can do more than this sage has done?”
Ned died, and left his Hat thus neater
Unto his cousin-german Peter.
A little, though, the worse for wear.
Here in the crown 'tis brown and tann'd;
I shall clap on a silken band.”
No sooner seen, the applauding crew
Shout with delight, “The Hat's grown new!
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Can do more than this sage has done?”
Ned died, and left his Hat thus neater
Unto his cousin-german Peter.
Peter was pleased, but in the place
Of silk put on a broad gold lace;
A cockade on one side he bore,
And on one side the Hat he wore.
The people see, with joy they shout,
“'Tis wisdom's highest pitch, no doubt.
Him genius fires, and judgment rules;
Compared to him the wise are fools.”
Peter bequeathed his Hat, when sick,
Belaced, cockaded, unto Dick.
Of silk put on a broad gold lace;
A cockade on one side he bore,
And on one side the Hat he wore.
The people see, with joy they shout,
“'Tis wisdom's highest pitch, no doubt.
Him genius fires, and judgment rules;
Compared to him the wise are fools.”
Peter bequeathed his Hat, when sick,
Belaced, cockaded, unto Dick.
Spare we to tell how Dick, the dandy,
At Operas thought it mighty handy
To squeeze the unlucky Hat together,
How George tried loop, and William feather
Suffice it, that with all this rout,
The Hat in time was quite worn out;
And when, bedockt and clipped, at last
The Hat had all these changes past,
'Twixt nephews, uncles, aunts, and nieces,
The poor old Hat got torn in pieces;
While, to the love of change still wedded,
Its last possessor went bare-headed!
At Operas thought it mighty handy
To squeeze the unlucky Hat together,
How George tried loop, and William feather
Suffice it, that with all this rout,
The Hat in time was quite worn out;
And when, bedockt and clipped, at last
The Hat had all these changes past,
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The poor old Hat got torn in pieces;
While, to the love of change still wedded,
Its last possessor went bare-headed!
The fable has a moral, and, no doubt,
You all have nous enough to find it out.
You all have nous enough to find it out.
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