OUR village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our
village of Bullock’s Smithy,
Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two
elders, and a withy;
And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre
and a half;
It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies,
three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs and a calf!
Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law
lease,
And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead
dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.
Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling
when the little village boys play at cricket;
Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come
and stand right before the wicket.
There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops,
and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,
With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch
of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads.
The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love
or money can raise
A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and
a ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”
There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be
their ranks in life or their degrees,
Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist
Chapel of Ease;
And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that
when the time is seasonable
Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims,
very low and reasonable.
There’s a cage comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack
Jeffery and Tom Pike;
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything
else you like.
I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the
upright post;
But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse as
is always there almost.
There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in
his way, Old Joe Bradley,
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses
very badly.
There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the
widow of Mr. Task;
But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything
you ask.
You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about
the old sugary cask:
There are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out.
For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and
election placards all about.
That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in
the window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and
a tea plant with five black leaves, and one green.
As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and the honeysuckles and
jasmines, you may go and whistle;
But the Tailor’s front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a
ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!
There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s
is the chief--
With two pear trees that don’t bear; one plum, and an apple that
every year is stripped by a thief.
There’s another small day-school too, kept by the respectable
Mrs. Gaby,
A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four
little girls and a baby;
There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys
that never smokes,
For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort
of folks;
There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded,
shock-headed churls,
And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine
ladies in false curls;
There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small
green grocer’s, and a baker,
But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal
merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare
with the London shops;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls,
and the other sells malt and hops.
And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her
betters,
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a
cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for
letters.
Now I’ve gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save
and except one more house,
But I haven’t come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that’s
the village Poor House!
_Thomas Hood._