Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG: HER ACCIDENT, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG: HER ACCIDENT, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The horse that carried miss kilmansegg
Last Line: With singleton's 'golden ointment'.
Subject(s): Accidents; Animals; Horses


The horse that carried Miss Kilmansegg,
And a better never lifted leg,
Was a very rich bay, called Banker --
A horse of a breed and a mettle so rare, --
By Bullion out of an Ingot mare, --
That for action, the best of figures, and air,
It made many good judges hanker.

And when she took a ride in the Park,
Equestrian Lord, or pedestrian Clerk,
Was thrown in an amorous fever,
To see the Heiress how well she sat,
With her groom behind her, Bob or Nat,
In green, half smother'd with gold, and a hat
With more gold lace than beaver.

And then when Banker obtain'd a pat,
To see how he arch'd his neck at that!
He snorted with pride and pleasure!
Like the Steed in the fable so lofty and grand,
Who gave the poor Ass to understand,
That he didn't carry a bag of sand,
But a burden of golden treasure.

A load of treasure? -- alas! alas!
Had her horse but been fed upon English grass,
And sheltered in Yorkshire spinneys,
Had he scour'd the sand with the Desart Ass,
Or where the American whinnies --
But a hunter from Erin's turf and gorse,
A regular thorough-bred Irish horse,
Why, he ran away, as a matter of course,
With a girl worth her weight in guineas!

Mayhap 'tis the trick of such pamper'd nags
To shy at the sight of a beggar in rags,
But away, like the bolt of a rabbit,
Away went the horse in the madness of fright,
And away went the horsewoman mocking the sight --
Was yonder blue flash a flash of blue light,
Or only the skirt of her habit?

Away she flies, with the groom behind, --
It looks like a race of the Calmuck kind,
When Hymen himself is the starter:
And the Maid rides first in the fourfooted strife,
Riding, striding, as if for her life,
While the Lover rides after to catch him a wife,
Although it's catching a Tartar.

But the Groom has lost his glittering hat!
Though he does not sigh and pull up for that --
Alas! his horse is a tit for Tatt
To sell to a very low bidder --
His wind is ruin'd, his shoulder is sprung,
Things, though a horse be handsome and young,
A purchaser will consider.

But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust,
Oh, for a fall, if fall she must,
On the gentle lap of Flora!
But still, thank Heaven! she clings to her seat --
Away! away! she could ride a dead heat
With the Dead who ride so fast and fleet,
In the Ballad of Leonora!

Away she gallops! -- it's awful work!
It's faster than Turpin's ride to York,
On Bess that notable clipper!
She has circled the Ring! -- she crosses the Park!
Mazeppa, although he was stripp'd so stark,
Mazeppa couldn't outstrip her!

The fields seem running away with the folks!
The Elms are having a race for the Oaks!
At a pace that all Jockeys disparages!
All, all is racing! the Serpentine
Seems rushing past like the 'arrowy Rhine',
The houses have got on a railway line,
And are off like the first-class carriages!

She'll lose her life! she is losing her breath!
A cruel chase, she is chasing Death,
As female shriekings forewarn her:
And now -- as gratis as blood of Guelph --
She clears that gate, which has clear'd itself
Since then, at Hyde Park Corner!

Alas! for the hope of the Kilmanseggs!
For her head, her brains, her body, and legs,
Her life's not worth a copper!
Willy-nilly,
In Piccadilly,
A hundred hearts turn sick and chilly,
A hundred voices cry, 'Stop her!'
And one old gentleman stares and stands,
Shakes his head and lifts his hands,
And says, 'How very improper!'

On and on! -- what a perilous run!
The iron rails seem all mingling in one,
To shut out the Green Park scenery!
And now the Cellar its dangers reveals,
She shudders -- she shrieks -- she's doom'd, she feels,
To be torn by powers of horses and wheels,
Like a spinner by steam machinery!

Sick with horror she shuts her eyes,
But the very stones seem uttering cries,
As they did to that Persian daughter,
When she climb'd up the steep vociferous hill,
Her little silver flagon to fill
With the magical Golden Water!

'Batter her! shatter her!
Throw and scatter her!'
Shouts each stony-hearted chatterer --
'Dash at the heavy Dover!
Spill her! kill her! tear and tatter her!
Smash her! crash her!' (the stones didn't flatter her!)
'Kick her brains out! let her blood spatter her!
Roll on her over and over!'

For so she gather'd the awful sense
Of the street in its past unmacadamized tense,
As the wild horse overran it, --
His four heels making the clatter of six,
Like a Devil's tattoo, played with iron sticks
On a kettle-drum of granite!

On! still on! she's dazzled with hints
Of oranges, ribbons, and colour'd prints,
A Kaleidoscope jumble of shapes and tints,
And human faces all flashing,
Bright and brief as the sparks from the flints,
That the desperate hoof keeps dashing!

On and on! still frightfully fast!
Dover-street, Bond-street, all are past!
But -- yes -- no -- yes! -- they're down at last!
The Furies and Fates have found them!
Down they go with a sparkle and crash,
Like a Bark that's struck by the lightning flash --
There's a shriek -- and a sob --
And the dense dark mob
Like a billow closes around them!

* * * * *
* * * *

'She breathes!'
'She don't!'
'She'll recover!'
'She won't!'
'She's stirring! she's living, by Nemesis!'
Gold, still gold! on counter and shelf!
Golden dishes as plenty as delf!
Miss Kilmansegg's coming again to herself
On an opulent Goldsmith's premises!

Gold! fine gold! -- both yellow and red,
Beaten, and molten -- polish'd, and dead --
To see the gold with profusion spread
In all forms of its manufacture!
But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg,
When the femoral bone of her dexter leg
Has met with a compound fracture?

God may sooth Adversity's smart;
Nay, help to bind up a broken heart;
But to try it on any other part
Were as certain a disappointment,
As if one should rub the dish and plate,
Taken out of a Staffordshire crate --
In the hope of a Golden Service of State --
With Singleton's 'Golden Ointment'.





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