Thomas Hood

Edited by Mabel E. Walton.

Thomas Hood, seventeen ninety-eight through eighteen forty-five.

The Gentleman's Magazine, eighteen seventy-two.

As he entered the room, my first impression was that of slight disappointment.

I stood in the doorway of a fifth-floor back room in a Camberwell lodging house, listening to a modern edition of The Song of the Shirt, sung to the accompaniment of the sewing machine.

The scenery was similar to that painted by Thomas Hood half a century ago.

The woman and the unwomanly rags, the crust of bread, the table, the straw, and the broken chair all were there.

The singer of the song sat at the machine, her head bent over the work which her hands were guiding, while her feet pushed the treadle up and down.

By Robert Herrick.

bid me to live and i will live thy protestant to be or bid me love and i will give a loving heart to thee a heart as soft a heart as kind a heart as sound and free as in the whole world thou canst find that heart i'll give to thee bid that heart stay and it will stay to honour thy decree or bid it languish quite away and shall do so for thee bid me to weep and i will weep while i have eyes to see and having none yet i will keep a heart to weep for thee bid me despair and i'll despair under that cypress tree or bid me die and i will dare e'en death to die for thee thou art my life my love my heart the very eyes of me and hast command of every part to live and die for thee The Death Bed by Thomas Hood we watched her breathing through the night her breathing soft and low as in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro so silently we seemed to speak so slowly moved about as we had lent her half our powers to eke her living out our very hopes belied our fears our fears our hopes belied we thought her dying when she slept and sleeping when she died for when the morn came dim and sad and chill with early showers her quiet eyelids closed she had another morn than ours End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

one more unfortunate weary of breath rashly importunate gone to her death take her up tenderly lift her with care fashioned so slenderly young and so fair look at her garments clinging like cerements whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing take her up instantly loving not loathing touch her not scornfully think of her mournfully gently and humanly not of the stains of her all that remains of her now is pure womanly make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful past all dishonour death has left on her only the beautiful still for all slips of hers one of eve's family wipe those poor lips of hers oozing so clammily loop up her tresses escaped from the comb her fair auburn tresses whilst wonderment guesses where was her home who was her father who was her mother had she a sister had she a brother or was there a dearer one still and a nearer one yet than all other alas for the rarity of christian charity under the sun oh it was pitiful near a whole city full home she had none sisterly brotherly fatherly motherly feelings had changed love by harsh evidence thrown from its eminence even god's providence seeming estranged where the lamps quiver so far in the river with many a light from window and casement from garret to basement she stood with amazement houseless by night the bleak wind of march made her tremble and shiver but not the dark arch or the black flowing river mad from life's history glad to death's mystery swift to be hurled anywhere anywhere out of the world in she plunged boldly no matter how coldly the rough river ran over the brink of it picture it think of it dissolute man lave in it drink of it then if you can take her up tenderly lift her with care fashioned so slenderly young and so fair ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly decently kindly smooth and compose them and her eyes close them staring so blindly Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity, As when with the daring last look of despairing, Fixed on futurity, perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, cold inhumanity, Burning insanity into her rest.

Ready for everything.

cross her hands humbly as if praying dumbly over her breast owning her weakness her evil behaviour and leaving with meekness her sins to her saviour I remember, I remember.

By Thomas Hood.

i remember i remember the house where i was born the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn he never came a wink too soon nor brought too long a day but now i often wish the night had borne my breath away i remember i remember the roses red and white the violets and the lily cups those flowers made of light the lilacs where the robin built and where my brother set the laburnum on his birthday the tree is living yet i remember i remember where i was used to swing and thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing my spirit flew in feathers then that is so heavy now and summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow i remember i remember the fir-trees dark and high i used to think their slender tops were close against the sky it was a childish ignorance but now tis little joy to know i'm farther off from heaven than when i was a boy End of poem.

In the Nursery of My Bookhouse, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller.

Precocious Piggy by Thomas Hood.

Where are you going to, you little pig? I'm leaving my mother.

I'm growing so big.