. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. ed to doff His batterd tatterd hat,And show his danglinjj sleeve, alas 1 There seemd no arm in that I X. Oh ! was it such a sin to air His true blue naval rags,Glorys own trophy, like St Pauls, Hung round with holy flags ? XI. Thou knowest best. I meditate, My Bodkin—no offence !Let us, henceforth, but nurse our poundi^ Thou dost protect our pence 1 XII. Well art thou pointed gainst the Poor, For, when the Beggar CrewBring their petitions, thou art paid, Of course, to run them through.* XIII. Of course thou art what Hamlet meant— To wretch
. The choice works of Thomas Hood, in prose and verse. ed to doff His batterd tatterd hat,And show his danglinjj sleeve, alas 1 There seemd no arm in that I X. Oh ! was it such a sin to air His true blue naval rags,Glorys own trophy, like St Pauls, Hung round with holy flags ? XI. Thou knowest best. I meditate, My Bodkin—no offence !Let us, henceforth, but nurse our poundi^ Thou dost protect our pence 1 XII. Well art thou pointed gainst the Poor, For, when the Beggar CrewBring their petitions, thou art paid, Of course, to run them through.* XIII. Of course thou art what Hamlet meant— To wretches the last friend ;What ills can mortals have they cant With a bare Bodkin end ? WHIMS AND ODDITIES, (FIRST SERIES, 1826/ O Cicero I Cicero 1 if to pun be a crime, tis a crime I have learned of thee. O BiasIBias I if to pun be a crime, by thy example 1 was biassed !—ScriblbkuSi DEDICATION TO THE REVIEWERS Wliat is a modern Poets fate ?To write his thoughts upon a slate ;—The Critic spits on what is dune,—Gives it a wipe,—and all is Very deaf, indeed. MORAL REFLECTIONS ON .THE CROSS OJiST FA ULS. * The man that pays his pence, and goesUp to thy lofty cross, St Paul,Looks over Londons naked nose, •London Magazine, 1822, vol. v. p, 404, 91 THE CROSS OF ST PA ULS. Women and men :The world is ill beneath his kea —He sits above the seems on Mount Olympus top,Among the Gods, by Ju|)iter ! and lets dropHis eyes from the empyreal cloudsOn mortal crowds. IL Seen from these skies,How small those emmets in our eyes 1Some carry little sticks—and oneHis eggs—to warm them in the sun : Dear ! what a hustle, And bustle !And theres my aunt. I know her by her wais^ So long and thin, And so pinchd in,Just in the pismire taste. IIL Oh ! what are men ?—Beings so small, That, should I fallUpon their little heads, I mustCrush them by hundreds into dust I IV. And what is life and all its ages ? Theres seven stages !—Turnham Green ! Chelsea! Putney! FulhamlBrentfo
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