The Volunteer.

"The clashing of my armor in my ears
Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me
In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
To dig my grave."

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

Hymeneal Retrospections.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Sonnet.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Lines To A Lady.[1] On Her Departure For India.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

The Song Of The Shirt.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Lover's Progress.

I.

'Twas in that memorable year
France threaten'd to put off in
Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each
To be a British coffin,
To make sad widows of our wives,
And every babe an orphan: -


II.

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,
And heads were dredg'd with flour,
I listed in the Lawyer's Corps,
Against the battle hour;
A perfect Volunteer - for why?
I brought my "will and pow'r."


III.

One dreary day - a day of dread,
Like Cato's, over-cast -
About the hour of six, (the morn
And I were breaking fast,)
There came a loud and sudden sound,
That struck me all aghast!


IV.

A dismal sort of morning roll,
That was not to be eaten;
Although it was no skin of mine,
Bu...

Thomas Hood

The Volunteer

"He leapt to arms unbidden,
    Unneeded, over-bold;
His face by earth is hidden,
    His heart in earth is cold.

"Curse on the reckless daring
    That could not wait the call,
The proud fantastic bearing
    That would be first to fall!"

O tears of human passion,
    Blur not the image true;
This was not folly's fashion,
    This was the man we knew.

Henry John Newbolt

A Waterloo Ballad.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
I'm come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came,
With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap - alas!
His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kep', -
No March of Intellect it was,
But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eye...

Thomas Hood

To Minerva

My temples throb, my pulses boil,
    I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad -
So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,
    And pour it on a lobster salad.

My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
    I cannot write a verse, or read -
Then Pallas, take away thine Owl,
    And let us have a Lark instead.

                        Thomas Hood.

Thomas Hood

Playing At Soldiers.

"Who'll serve the King?"


What little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
Of martial trappings caught?
Trappings well call'd - because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag
(Our plate will show the manner),
And wooed each tiny neighbor still,
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,
In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!"
Come, who will serve the king,
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead,
And cut off Bonyparty's head? -
And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy,
To march with military toy,
And ape the soldier's life; -

Thomas Hood

Lament For The Decline Of Chivalry.[1]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,
All chivalrous romantic work
Is ended now and past! -
That iron age - which some have thought
Of metal rather overwrought -
Is now all overcast!

Ay! where are those heroic knights
Of old - those armadillo wights
Who wore the plated vest? -
Great Charlemagne and all his peers
Are cold - enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such éclat!
Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!
And none engage at tourneys now
But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by,
And Guy is nothing but a Guy,
Orlando lies forlorn! -
Bold Sidney, and his kidney - nay,
Those "early champions" - wh...

Thomas Hood