Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose
Crested with soot, and not with snows:
What clouds of dingy hue!

In spite of what the bard has penn❜d,
I fear the distance did not lend
Enchantment to the view!

Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design
Black Forests, half as black as mine,
Or lakes so like a pall';

The Chinese cake dispers'd a ray
Of darkness, like the light of Day
And Martin over all.

Yet urchin pride sustain❜d me still,
I gaz'd on all with right good will,
And spread the dingy tint;
No holy Luke help'd me to paint,
The devil surely, not a saint,
Had any finger in't!?

But colours came !-like morning light,
With gorgeous hues displacing night,
Or Spring's enliven'd scene:

At once the sable shades withdrew,
My skies got very, very blue;
My trees extremely green.

And wash'd by my cosmetic brush,
How Beauty's cheek began to blush
With lock of auburn stain—

(Not Goldsmith's auburn)-nut-brown hair, That made her loveliest of the fair,

Not loveliest of the plain !'

E

Her lips were of vermilion hue;
Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue
Set all my heart in flame!

A young Pygmalion, I ador'd

The maids I made but time was stor'd
With evil-and it came!

Perspective dawn'd-and soon I saw
My houses stand against its law;
And keeping' all unkept!
My beauties were no longer things
For love and fond imaginings;
But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
Why did I get more artist-wise?
It only serves to hint

What grave defects and wants are mine ;
That I'm no Hilton in design-
In nature no Dewint!

Thrice happy time!-Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise
Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seem'd
And such Old Masters all were deem'd
As nothing to the young!

T. Hood.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN1

An Old Ballad.

YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew,
And Sally she did faint away,

While Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words
Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit,

'Twas nothing but a feint.

'Come, girl,' said he, 'hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;

For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be.'

So when they'd made their game of her

And taken off her elf,

She rous'd and found she only was

A coming to herself.

And is he gone, and is he gone?'
She cried, and wept outright:
Then I will to the water side
And see him out of sight.'

1 Hood wrote that he was prouder of this ballad than of any other of his works.

A waterman came up to her,-
'Now young woman,' said he,
you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea.'

• If

"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow';
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, Gee woe!

Says he,They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see';
The Tender-ship,' cried Sally Brown,
'What a hardship that must be!'

"Oh! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But oh! I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

'Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales.'

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furl'd.

But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she got on,

He found she'd got another Ben

Whose Christian name was John.

'O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!'

Then reading on his 'bacco box

He heav'd a bitter sigh,

And then began to eye

his pipe,

And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing All's well,'
But could not though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happen'd in his berth,
At forty-odd befell;

They went and told the sexton, and

The sexton toll'd the bell.

T. Hood.

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S
TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE1

An Election Ballad.

As I sate down to breakfast in state,
At my living of Tithing-cum-Borin,
With Betty beside me to wait

Came a rap that almost beat the door in.
I laid down basin of tea,

my

And Betty ceased spreading the toast, 'As sure as a gun, sir,' said she,

That must be the knock of the post.'

1Written in 1827. Two stanzas are omitted.