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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

A Nocturnal Sketch

By Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,

The signal of the setting sun—one gun!

And six is sounding from the chime, prime time

To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,

Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,

Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,

Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;

Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride

Four horses as no other man can span;

Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split

Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things

Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;

The gas upblazes with its bright white light,

And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl

About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,

Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,

Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,

But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,

And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,

And sleepers waking grumble, “Drat that cat!”

Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls

Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise

In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor

Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;

But nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,

Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,

And that she hears—what faith is man’s!—Ann’s banns

And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:

White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,

That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!