. The poetical works of Thomas Hood. With a memoir of the author ... er about — where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers !Im scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, theyd rim over their own Sisters and may be hes stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimblys red Id give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his hes my darlin of darlins, and i
. The poetical works of Thomas Hood. With a memoir of the author ... er about — where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers !Im scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, theyd rim over their own Sisters and may be hes stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimblys red Id give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his hes my darlin of darlins, and if he dont soon come back, youll see me drop stone dead on the place. 1 only wish Id got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldnt I hug him and kiss him ILawk! I never knew what a precious he was—but a child dont not feel like a child till you miss there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, its that Billy as sartin as sin !But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and Im blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin I. A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 191 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. Oh, wjien I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy. My mates were blithe and kind !—No wonder that 1 sometimes dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behmd 1 A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found A top a joyous thing ;—But now those past delights I head, alas ! is all my top, And careful thoughts the string ! My marbles—once my bag was stored,—Now I must play with Elgins lord. With Theseus for a taw !My playful horse has slip<- his string,Forgotten all his capermg. And harnessM to the law I My kite—how fast and far it flew !Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky !Twas paperd oer with studious themes,The tasks I wrote—my present dreams Will never soar so high ! My joys are wingless all and dead ;My dumps are made of more than lead ; My flights soon find a fall ;My fears
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