From wall to wall she forced her way, Elbowed Lord Durham--poked Lord Grey-- Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move, And Devonshire's Duke received a shove; The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honor, budge, And gave a pinch to Park, the judge.

As for the ladies in this stir, The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two, She searched the pictures through and through, On benches stood, to inspect the high ones, And squatted down to see the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part, A deeper red each cheek became, Her very eyes lit up in flame, That made each looker-on exclaim, "Really an ardent love of art!"

Alas! amidst her inquisition, Fate brought her to a sad condition; She might have run against Lord Milton, And still have stared at deeds in oil.

But ah! her picture-joy to spoil, She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes, Like a lay-figure for surprise, At last this stammered out, "How now?

Woman--where, woman, is your ticket, That ought to have let you through our wicket?"

Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?"

Said Mr. H---- with expedition, "There's no Cow in the Exhibition."

"No Cow!"--but here her tongue in verity, Set off with steam and rail celerity--

"No Cow! there ain't no Cow, then the more's the shame and pity, Hang you, and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee!

No Cow--but hold your tongue--for you needn't talk to me-- You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be-- I haven't seen a picture high or low, or anyhow, Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow!

You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers and your Wards, Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords!

They're only fit for window frames, and shutters and street doors, David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars,-- Why, Morland was a fool to him,--at a little pig or sow-- It's really hard it ain't hung up,--I could cry about the Cow!

But I know well what it is, and why--they're jealous of David's fame, But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame,-- Do you think it might hang by and by, if you cannot hang it now?

David has made a party up, to come and see his Cow If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners-- Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's?

Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row, If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow!

I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creature, Although I say, that should not say, it was prettier than nature!

It must be hung--and shall be hung--for, Mr. H----, I vow I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow!

As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care, If it was only round the stone man's neck, a coming up the stair.

Or down there in the marble room where all the figures stand, Where one of them three Graces might just hold it in her hand-- Or maybe Baily's Charity the favor would allow, It would really be a charity to hang up David's Cow.

We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here, The Water Color place allows no oilman to appear-- And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers and Gerard Douw, And the Suffolk Gallery will not do--it's not a Suffolk Cow: I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals Till she was painted on the board, correct from head to heels: His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby, He hardly whipped the boys at all,--or helped to nurse the babby, And when he had her all complete and painted over red, He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head.

Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow, Poor David, he will hang himself, unless you hang his Cow.

And if it's inconvenient and drawn too big by half-- David shan't send next year except a very little calf!"

LINES TO MARY.

OLD BAILEY BALLADS.

(At No. 1, Newgate. Favored by Mr. Wontner.)

O Mary, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knew-- That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! when I snatch'd a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face-- It would have been an unfair feeling To dream that you had pilfered lace-- And Flint's had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferred, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammer'd out a word, How could I dream you heard a sentence!

Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand--where I have look'd and linger'd, Altho' it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-fingered!

In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my muse delighted-- Alas! the lay I thought was new.

Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick'd me from the world, My vanity it now must shock it-- And down at once my pride is hurled, You've pick'd me--and you've pick'd a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far, The banns were read by Doctor Daly, Who asked if there was any bar-- Why did not some one shout "Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_?

And when the parson came to say, My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honor and obey, Who could have thought--"O Bay of Botany!"

But oh!--the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover-- That down in Deptford's prison ships, O Mary! you've a hulking lover!

THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.[31]

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners."

_Picture of Isle of Wight_.

[Footnote 31: Written when Walter Scott was familiarly known as the "Wizard of the North," the title which is the key to the present poem.

Scott died in September, 1832, in the interval between the writing and the publishing of the verses, for which Hood makes regretful apology in the Preface to the _Comic Annual_ for 1833, in which they appeared.]

I.

One close of day--'twas in the Bay Of Naples, bay of glory!

While light was hanging crowns of gold On mountains high and hoary, A gallant bark got under weigh, And with her sails my story.

II.

For Leghorn she was bound direct, With wine and oil for cargo, Her crew of men some nine or ten, The captain's name was Jago; A good and gallant bark she was, La Donna (call'd) del Lago.

III.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view, With brown cheeks, clear or muddy, Dark shining eyes, and coal-black hair, Meet heads for painter's study; But midst their tan there stood one man, Whose cheek was fair and ruddy;

IV.

His brow was high, a loftier brow Ne'er shone in song or sonnet, His hair, a little scant, and when He doff'd his cap or bonnet, One saw that Grey had gone beyond A premiership upon it!

V.