The Carelesse Nurse Mayd.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;
And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was Fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,
She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answered round -
O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde
The Momente that her Care was drownd!

Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood, born May 23, 1799, and passed away on May 3, 1845, was a British humorist and poet renowned for his comic verse and sharp satire. His most famous works include 'The Song of the Shirt' and 'The Bridge of Sighs,' which highlighted social issues and the plight of the poor. Hood's legacy is celebrated for blending humor with a deep empathy for human suffering, making his poetry both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Thomas Hood

Ode To The Moon.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Stanzas.[1]

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Sonnet.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

The Duel. - A Serious Ballad.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

English

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From Eclogue viij

Farre in the countrey of Arden
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
    as bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
    as was the good sir Topas.
He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
    a mayden fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
    of mickle curtesie.
The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
    and with the needle werke,
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
    and sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a frocke of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden Queene,
    which seemly was to see.
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
    yw...

Michael Drayton

Maying; Or, A Love Of Flowers

Upon a day, a merry day,
When summer in her best,
Like Sunday belles, prepares for play,
And joins each merry guest,
A maid, as wild as is a bird
That never knew a cage,
Went out her parents' kine to herd,
And Jocky, as her page,

Must needs go join her merry toils;

A silly shepherd he,
And little thought the aching broils
That in his heart would be;
For he as yet knew nought of love,
And nought of love knew she;
Yet without learning love can move
The wildest to agree.

The wind, enamoured of the maid,
Around her drapery swims,
And moulds in luscious masquerade
Her lovely shape and limbs.
Smith's "Venus stealing Cupid's bow"
In marble hides as fine;
But hers were life and soul, whose glow
Makes meaner things d...

John Clare

A Parthian Glance.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail." - ROGERS.


Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;
Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,
Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,
Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,
That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,
Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nu...

Thomas Hood

The Priest's Heart

It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,
    He strode up off the strand;
But seven fisher maidens he left behind
    All dancing hand in hand.

He came unto the wise wife's house:
    'Now, Mother, to prove your art;
To charm May Carleton's merry blue eyes
    Out of a young man's heart.'

'My son, you went for a holy man,
    Whose heart was set on high;
Go sing in your psalter, and read in your books;
    Man's love fleets lightly by.'

'I had liever to talk with May Carleton,
    Than with all the saints in Heaven;
I had liever to sit by May Carleton
    Than climb the spheres seven.

'I have watched and fasted, early and late,
    I have prayed to all above;
But I find no cure save churchyard mould
    For the pain which ...

Charles Kingsley

An Olde Lyric.

I.

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,
    My own true love so sweete?
For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye
    The prynte of her faery feete.
Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?
    Is she darke or fayre to see?
Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?
    Is't braided her haire or free?

II.

Oh, never by outward looke or signe,
    My true love shall ye knowe;
There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,
    And many as brighte to showe.
But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes,
    Which into the soule can see,
She then would be seene as the matchless Queene
    Of Love and of Puritie.

Horace Smith

Ballad.

She's up and gone, the graceless girl,
And robb'd my failing years!
My blood before was thin and cold
But now 'tis turn'd to tears; -
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stay'd a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill:
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet ...

Thomas Hood