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While the steeples are loud in their joy, To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding, Let us chime in a peal, one and all, For we all should be able to sing Hullah baloo.

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.
Joy
Chimes
Able
Tune
Bells
Tunes
Ring
Peal
Rings
Chime
Loud
Ding
Sing
Steeples

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Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones.
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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!
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No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
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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!
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Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim!
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When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
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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?
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Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
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I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburmum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet.
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Fuss is the froth of business.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring , :: Must be a spoon.
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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.'
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She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
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Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?
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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
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