I ran across a poem entitled November, penned by the English poet Thomas Hood. Despite its somber tone, the extravagant negativism of the lyrics made me chuckle. I felt somewhat vindicated when I read that Hood (1799-1845) was an “English poet and humorist,” so maybe he intended the piece to be over-the-top, and thus humorous. On the other hand, London in Hood’s day was not only cold and overcast during late autumn, it was also commonly shrouded in pea-soup smog—so maybe the poem isn’t so over-the-top after all. Although Hood was a humorist, he wrote both serious and witty poetry—but the serious poems brought him recognition and fame. I’ll let you be the judge about November….
| NOVEMBER No sun - no moon! No morn - no noon - No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member - No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November! |
Hood’s father was a London bookseller, so Thomas, in his youth, had the idyllic situation of living above a bookshop, with easy access to literature. However, when Hood was twelve, his life changed dramatically when his father died. At age 14, he began work at a business firm, doing bookkeeping-type activities, work from which he derived no joy. He soon fell ill and moved to Scotland to live with his father’s family, but a few years later, he was back in London. After his return, he eventually found work as an editor and began writing. He frequently wrote about contemporary issues—so some of his poetry can be difficult to appreciate if one lacks knowledge about the news of Hood’s day. But other Hood poems touch on universal subjects and clearly resonate today.
Below is an example of Hood’s humorous take on an issue of his day: grave robbing. As medicine was inching away from clumsy, barbarous practices, toward a more scientific approach, anatomists were eager to acquire corpses for study, and grave robbers were eager to supply them.
| MARY’S GHOST: A PATHETIC BALLAD 'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside. O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces. I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home, I didn't stay long in it. The body-snatchers they have come, And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be! You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave in Mary-bone, They've come and boned your Mary. The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's. I vowed that you should have my hand, But fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's, In spirits and a phial. As for my feet, the little feet You used to call so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t'other's in the City. I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van. I wish you'd go to Mr. P. And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place, They've took for my inside. The cock it crows--I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart. Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie. |
(I highlighted that last verse because I think it’s quite brilliant!) This next poem is Hood’s most famous--The Song of the Shirt. In it, he trades humor for poignancy. The poem is about a poor, Victorian-era seamstress, slaving to feed her malnourished child. The poem, first published in Punch, became immensely popular with the public and fueled social activists to help women laborers.
| THE SONG OF THE SHIRT With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt." "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work - work - work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! Work - work - work, Till the brain begins to swim; Work - work - work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch - stitch - stitch, In poverty, hunger and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear And flesh and blood so cheap! Work - work - work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof - this naked floor - A table - a broken chair - And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! Work - work - work! From weary chime to chime, Work - work - work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. Work - work - work, In the dull December light, And work - work - work, When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the Rich! She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" |
I’ll leave you with a catchy little ditty of Hood’s: A Plain Direction. If you’re like me, the rest of the day you’ll be hearing “straight down the Crooked Lane, and all around the Square” in your head….
| A PLAIN DIRECTION In London once I lost my way In faring to and fro, And ask'd a little ragged boy The way that I should go; He gave a nod, and then a wink, And told me to get there "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I box'd his little saucy ears, And then away I strode; But since I've found that weary path Is quite a common road. Utopia is a pleasant place, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a famous town That drove a famous trade, Where Whittington walk'd up and found A fortune ready made. The very streets are paved with gold; But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a Fairy Land, In some romantic tale, Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive And wicked Giants fail. My wish is great, my shoes are strong, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard about some happy Isle, Where ev'ry man is free, And none can lie in bonds for life For want of L. S. D. Oh that's the land of Liberty! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square," I've dreamt about some blessed spot, Beneath the blessed sky, Where Bread and Justice never rise Too dear for folks to buy. It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is an ancient House, As pure as it is old, Where Members always speak their minds And votes are never sold. I'm fond of all antiquities, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is a Royal Court Maintain'd in noble state, Where ev'ry able man, and good, Is certain to be great! I'm very fond of seeing sights, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is a Temple too, Where Christians come to pray; But canting knaves and hypocrites, And bigots keep away. Oh that's the parish church for me! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." They say there is a Garden fair, That's haunted by the dove, Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse The golden light of love-- The place must be a Paradise, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard there is a famous Land For public spirit known-- Whose Patriots love its interests Much better than their own. The Land of Promise sure it is! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a fine Estate, A Mansion large and strong; A view all over Kent and back, And going for a song. George Robins knows the very spot, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard there is a Company All formal and enroll'd, Will take your smallest silver coin And give it back in gold. Of course the office door is mobb'd, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've heard about a pleasant Land, Where omelettes grow on trees, And roasted pigs run crying out, "Come eat me, if you please." My appetite is rather keen, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." |
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