Thomas Hood

That very night while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist.

My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price: A dozen times I groaned: the dead Had never groaned but twice!

And lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame; Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame.

'Twas in the prime of summer-time An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work, Till the stars shine through the roof!

My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

Sewing at once a double thread, A shroud as well as a 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,

What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched—my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging Zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me "dust to dust."

Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

Oh bed! oh bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.

A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon.

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

Never go to France Unless you know the lingo, If you do, like me, You will repent, by jingo.

Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence.

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.