Quote

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.

Thomas Hood

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Thomas Hood
Age: 45 †
Born: 1799
Born: May 23
Died: 1845
Died: May 3
Humorist
Poet
Writer
London
England
T. H.
Arms
Bold
War
Laid
Used
Ball
Soldier
Balls
Legs
Cannon
Battle
Cannons
Took
Alarms

More quotes by Thomas Hood

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And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
Thomas Hood
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The year's in wane There is nothing adorning The night has no eve, And the day has no morning Cold winter gives warning!
Thomas Hood
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O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
Thomas Hood
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How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Thomas Hood
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
Thomas Hood
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Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Thomas Hood
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
Thomas Hood
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Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
Thomas Hood
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What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched-my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me 'dust to dust.'
Thomas Hood
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The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
Thomas Hood
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With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.
Thomas Hood
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The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
Thomas Hood
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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
Thomas Hood
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
Thomas Hood
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The Autumn is old The sere leaves are flying He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying- Old age, begin sighing!
Thomas Hood
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Bells are musics laughter.
Thomas Hood
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
Thomas Hood
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We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
Thomas Hood
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Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Thomas Hood
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Thomas Hood