 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood |  |
265
A TRUE STORY
Whoe'er has seen upon the human face
The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black,
May form a notion of old Colonel Case
With nigger Pompey waiting at his back.
The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black,
May form a notion of old Colonel Case
With nigger Pompey waiting at his back.
Case,—as the case is, many time with folks
From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay,
Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say,
And show'd two cheeks as yellow as eggs' yolks.
Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block,
In hue was like his master's stiff cravat,
And might indeed have claimed akin to that,
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.
From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay,
Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say,
And show'd two cheeks as yellow as eggs' yolks.
Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block,
In hue was like his master's stiff cravat,
And might indeed have claimed akin to that,
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.
Case wore the liver's livery that such
Must wear, their past excesses to denote,
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature's staining—one of those
We call fast colours—merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.
Must wear, their past excesses to denote,
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature's staining—one of those
We call fast colours—merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.
Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow,
Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow.
Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow.
The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner,
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket,
And homeward turning his Hibernian thought,
Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket,
And homeward turning his Hibernian thought,
Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.
Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet,
Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot,
A fact recorded in each day's diurnals,
Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,
Careless of news;
But Pompey always read these bloody journals,
Full of Killmany and of Killmore work,
The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly,
Of morning frays by some O'Brien Burke,
Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly;
How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle,
Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it,
And if he found an infant in the cradle
Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it;—
In fact, he read of burner and of killer,
And Irish ravages, day after day,
Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say,
That ‘Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pillar.’
Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot,
A fact recorded in each day's diurnals,
Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,
Careless of news;
But Pompey always read these bloody journals,
Full of Killmany and of Killmore work,
The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly,
Of morning frays by some O'Brien Burke,
Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly;
How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle,
Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it,
And if he found an infant in the cradle
Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it;—
266
And Irish ravages, day after day,
Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say,
That ‘Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pillar.’
Judge then the horror of the nigger's face
To find—with such impressions of that dire land—
That Case,—his master,—was a packing case
For Ireland!
He saw in fearful reveries arise,
Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men
Whose fame associate with Irish plots is,
Fitzgeralds—Tones—O'Connors—Hares—and then
‘Those Emmets,’ not so ‘little in his eyes’
As Doctor Watts's!
He felt himself piked, roasted,—carv'd and hack'd,
His big black burly body seemed in fact
A pincushion for Terror's pins and needles,—
Oh, how he wish'd himself beneath the sun
Of Afric—or in far Barbadoes—one
Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles.
To find—with such impressions of that dire land—
That Case,—his master,—was a packing case
For Ireland!
He saw in fearful reveries arise,
Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men
Whose fame associate with Irish plots is,
Fitzgeralds—Tones—O'Connors—Hares—and then
‘Those Emmets,’ not so ‘little in his eyes’
As Doctor Watts's!
He felt himself piked, roasted,—carv'd and hack'd,
His big black burly body seemed in fact
A pincushion for Terror's pins and needles,—
Oh, how he wish'd himself beneath the sun
Of Afric—or in far Barbadoes—one
Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles.
Full of this fright,
With broken peace and broken English choking,
As black as any raven and as croaking,
Pompey rushed in upon his master's sight,
Plump'd on his knees, and clasp'd his sable digits,
Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets—
‘O Massa!—Massa!—Colonel!—Massa Case!—
Not go to Ireland!—Ireland dam bad place;
Dem take our bloods—dem Irish—every drop—
Oh why for Massa go so far a distance
To have him life?’—Here Pompey made a stop,
Putting an awful period to existence.
With broken peace and broken English choking,
As black as any raven and as croaking,
Pompey rushed in upon his master's sight,
Plump'd on his knees, and clasp'd his sable digits,
Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets—
‘O Massa!—Massa!—Colonel!—Massa Case!—
Not go to Ireland!—Ireland dam bad place;
Dem take our bloods—dem Irish—every drop—
Oh why for Massa go so far a distance
To have him life?’—Here Pompey made a stop,
Putting an awful period to existence.
‘Not go to Ireland—not to Ireland, fellow,
And murder'd—why should I be murder'd, Sirrah?’
Cried Case, with anger's tinge upon his yellow,—
Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror
The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan,—
‘Well, what has that to do—quick—speak outright, boy?’
‘O Massa’—(so the explanation ran)
‘Massa be killed—'cause Massa Orange Man,
And Pompey killed—'cause Pompey not a White Boy!’
And murder'd—why should I be murder'd, Sirrah?’
Cried Case, with anger's tinge upon his yellow,—
Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror
The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan,—
‘Well, what has that to do—quick—speak outright, boy?’
‘O Massa’—(so the explanation ran)
‘Massa be killed—'cause Massa Orange Man,
And Pompey killed—'cause Pompey not a White Boy!’
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood | |