To

And victuals past chewing
rags and to sticks!
How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly,

And never will learn
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,-
I wish they had told one

The lamp would n't burn,

Now then for some blunder
For nerves to sink under :
I never shall wonder,

Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle!
It's broke in the middle.

A Turbot! a fiddle!
It's only a Brill!

It's quite over-boiled too,
The butter is oiled too,
The soup is all spoiled too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning,
She gets a month's warning.
My orders for scorning —
There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,

I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,

I'm born to be vext!

The pudding brought on too,
And aiming at ton too!
And where is that John too.

The plague that he is? He's off on some ramble: And there is Miss Campbell, Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz'

The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,

An Ogre would shy it
So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on
Converts to a button

Each drop of the fat.

The beef without mustard! My fate's to be flustered, And there comes the custard To eat with the hare! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing, Such waiting and dishing,

Well, where is the curry?
I'm all in a flurry.

No, Cook 's in no hurry

A stoppage again!

And John makes it wider,
A pretty provider !

By bringing up cider

Instead of champagne'

My troubles come faster! There's my lord and master Detects each disaster,

And hardly can sit : IIe cannot help seeing,

All things disagreeing;
If he begins d-ing

I'm off in a fit!

This cooking?

it's messing!

The spinach wants pressing,

And salads in dressing

Are best with good eggs.
And John-yes, already-
Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs.

How shall I get through it?
I never can do it,
I'm quite looking to it,

To sink by and by.

O! would I were dead now,

Or up in my bed now,

To cover my

head now,

And have a good cry!

NOTES.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, pp. 163–228.

Many of these minor poems were originally published in the London Magazine: among them Fair Ines, The Departure of Summer, Autumn, Hymn to the Sun, To a Cold Beauty, The Sea of Death, and a number of the Sonnets. The favorite song I Remember, I Remember, first appeared in Friendship's Offering for 1826; the Ode to the Moon in Blackwood's Magazine. All these were reprinted in the author's first volume of poems, published in 1827. In the same volume appeared the Ode to Melancholy, perhaps the most remarkable of his serious poems, so plaintive, so full of melody, so rich in imagery, so infused with the poetical element of the author's character and disposition. There is nothing that Hood has written which so opens the inner sanctuary of his nature-so lays bare his heart of hearts. This ode may rank with the odes of Collins, and is of itself sufficient to establish a poet's fame.

The Death Bed was the author's only poetical communication to the Englishman's Magazine, a journal started by Moxon on the decline of the London, but which lived only half a year. The Key appeared in Hood's Magazine for March, 1844. From the Ballad on page 217, two stanzas were omitted by the author, which have since been published:

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,

That tears began to stud?

And when I asked the like of love,

You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last,-

It was the Time of Roses,

We pluck'd them as we pass'd!