 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood |  |
THE BALLAD
O, when I was a little boy—
This print the time recalls—
What strips of song there hung along
Old palings and old walls!
This print the time recalls—
What strips of song there hung along
Old palings and old walls!
O, how they flaunted in the air,
And flutter'd on their strings!
I'd heard of Muses, and they seemed
Like feathers from their wings—
And flutter'd on their strings!
I'd heard of Muses, and they seemed
Like feathers from their wings—
Dim flimsy papers, little fit
With Newland's bills to rank;
But O! there seem'd whole millions there
In notes of Boyhood's Bank!
With Newland's bills to rank;
But O! there seem'd whole millions there
In notes of Boyhood's Bank!
With what a charm of black and white
They witch'd the urchin sense!
How blest if I could stop and buy!
How pensive—without pence!
They witch'd the urchin sense!
How blest if I could stop and buy!
How pensive—without pence!
How hard, alas! if forced to pass
By that enchanted place,
In dismal sort—a farthing short—
To long for ‘Chevy Chase.’
By that enchanted place,
In dismal sort—a farthing short—
To long for ‘Chevy Chase.’
One comfort liv'd—if pence were scant,
There still was Mary Dunn—
So stored with song, she seem'd the whole
Nine Muses rolled in one.
There still was Mary Dunn—
So stored with song, she seem'd the whole
Nine Muses rolled in one.
Her pocket money never went
For cheesecake or for tart;
She purchased all new songs, I had
The old ones each by heart.
For cheesecake or for tart;
She purchased all new songs, I had
The old ones each by heart.
When Mary set to sing, to read,
All sport and play stood still—
Her words could lock a waggon wheel,
And stop the march to drill.
All sport and play stood still—
Her words could lock a waggon wheel,
And stop the march to drill.
Meanwhile, the tragic tale she told
Of Babies in the Wood
And gentle Redbreast,—or that bold
Cock Robin, Robin Hood,
Of Babies in the Wood
And gentle Redbreast,—or that bold
Cock Robin, Robin Hood,
Will Scarlet, and his merry mates,
Who Lincoln Green had on—
I listen'd till I thought myself
A little Little John.
Who Lincoln Green had on—
I listen'd till I thought myself
A little Little John.
O, happy times! O, happy rhymes!
For ever ye're gone by!
Few now—if any—are the lays
Can make me smile or sigh.
For ever ye're gone by!
Few now—if any—are the lays
Can make me smile or sigh.
Perchance myself am changed—perchance
I do their authors wrong—
But scarce a modern ballad now
Seems worthy ‘an old song.’
I do their authors wrong—
But scarce a modern ballad now
Seems worthy ‘an old song.’
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood | |