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I wish that I could run away

From House, and Court, and Levee, Where bearded men appear to-day Just Eton boys grown heavy,

That I could bask in childhood's sun
And dance o'er childhood's roses,
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
Vast wit in broken noses,

And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

And call the milk-maids Houris,—

That I could be a boy again,

A happy boy, at Drury's.

VOL. III.

H

DOMESTIC POEMS.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

"It's hame, hame, hame."-A. CUNNINGHAM.
"There's no place like home."-CLARI.

IT has often been remarked-and never

"John

more likely than after hearing Anderson, my Jo," sung by Broadhurst, at a public dinner-that there is a species of Poetry, indigenous to Scotland, which might emphatically be called Domestic. The Land of Cakes is, indeed, peculiarly rich in songs and ballads of household interest, which, like their stock Tragedy of Douglas, may be said to be Home-made. The Caledonian Muse does not merely take

a walk round the premises, speculating on the domestic comforts, or discomforts, the household affections, or disaffections, within but she is invited and goes ben, far ben ; makes herself quite at home; and is "treated as one of the family." She sits down, like a gossip as she is, at the ingle side; takes a peep into the muckle pat; pries into the cradle; and does not hesitate to spier into the dubious parentage of

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young wee Donald." She gauges the meal-tub; and informs herselt of the stock of siller in hand. There are no secrets with her. The gude wife and gude man unfold to her their most private affairs. They describe to her how they sleep, with a pint stoup at their bed feet; and confide to her all their particular gratifications and grievances. Johnny complains of a weary

pound of tow,-that his wife does not drink hooly and fairly,—and hints that he should not be sorry to see the termagant dished up in her winding sheet:―Jeanie tells of his extravagance, in not wanting to take his old cloak about him; and asks counsel on the state of his grey breeks. The Daughter, if she be at home, gets the Muse in a corner, lets her into the names and number of her lovers; describes the modes and freedoms of their wooings; and repeats all their love-nonsense verbatim. In short, a Familiar of the Inquisition could not be more familiar with all the recesses of their private life: only what the Muse knows she publishes; and, in the shape of ballads and songs, spreads her home news, scandal and all, throughout the parishes.

The English, on the contrary, have few Poems of this nature. The Muse does not sing like a cricket from our hearths; and with an abundance of home-made wines, we have scarcely a home-made song. This is a gap in our literature, a vacant shelf in our Family Library, that ought to be filled up. I cannot suppose that we are nationally deficient in the fireside feelings and homely affections which inspire a domestic ditty ;but take it for granted that the vein exists, though it has not been worked. In the hope of drawing the attention of our Bards to the subject, I venture to offer a few specimens of Domestic Poems, "such as "to use the words of Doctor Watts"I wish some happy and condescending Genius would undertake and perform much better."

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