Classic and Contemporary Poetry
OUR VILLAGE, by THOMAS HOOD Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Our village, that's to say not miss mitford's village, but Last Line: That's the village poor house! Subject(s): Villages | ||||||||
'Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain.' -- Goldsmith. OUR village, that's to say not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle, there's a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigstyes, and poultry buts, and such-like sheds; With plenty of pablic houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postilion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white borses, and a ramshackled 'neat postchaise'. There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist chapel of Ease; And close by the church-yard there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afllictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with old Jack Jeffrey and Tome Pike: For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse, as is always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley. Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts, that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there, it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask: There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill stickers won't beware, but sticks notices of sales and election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whisttle; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's is the chief-- With two pear-trees that don't bear; one plum and an apple, that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby. A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby; There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes, For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks; There's a barber's, once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls. And a window with two feminine men's beads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday, and there's a sexton that's a coal-merchant besides, and an undertaker; And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops. And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, Lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I've gone through all the village--aye, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the Village Poor House! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HOURS; FOR INGRID ERHARDT, 1951-1971 by NORMAN DUBIE STREETS OF PEARL AND GOLD by CAROLYN KIZER THE LITTLE VILLAGE by ERIC PANKEY VILLAGE IN LATE SUMMER by CARL SANDBURG IN THE BERKSHIRE HILLS by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE DESERTED VILLAGE by OLIVER GOLDSMITH CITY AND VILLAGE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |
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