Simon
"Well, turn and turn about is fair:Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare;But nothing to my load of hay--You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,And cash was wanted for the rent;So up to Lonnon I was sent,To sell as prime a load of hay,As ever dried on summer's day.
"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,A chap comes up to buy my load,And looks, and looks about the cart,Pretending to be 'cute and smart;But no great judge, as people say,'Cause why? he never smelt the hay.Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,He'll give a simple price mayhap,Such buyers comes but now and then,So slap I axes nine pun' ten.'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quickHe taps his leathers with his stick.'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay,Just while we bargin 'bout the hay.So in we goes, my chap and me;He drinks to I, and I to he;At last, says I, a little gay,'It's time to talk about that hay,''Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man,Live, and let live--for that's my plan.''That's true,' says I, 'but still I say,It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,'And so we chaffers for a bit,At long and last the odds we split;And off he sets to show the way,Where up a yard I leaves the hay.Then, from the pocket of his coat,He pulls a book, and picks a note.'That's Ten,' says he--'I hope to payTens upon tens for loads of hay.''With all my heart, and soon,' says I,And feeling for the change thereby;But all my shillings com'd to five--Says he, 'No matter, man alive!There's something in your honest phizI'd trust, if twice the sum it is;--You'll pay next time you come to town.''As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.''All right,' says he.--Thinks I 'huzza!He's got no bargain of the hay!'
"Well, home I goes, with empty cart,Whipping the horses pretty smart,And whistling ev'ry yard o' way,To think how well I'd sold the hay--And just cotch'd Master at his greensAnd bacon, or it might be beans,Which didn't taste the worse surely,To hear his hay had gone so high.But lord! when I laid down the note,It stuck the victuals in his throat,And chok'd him till his face all grewLike pickling-cabbage, red and blue;With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!They seem'd a-coming out like snails!'A note,' says he, half mad with passion,'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!'Now, wasn't that a pretty mess?That's Hagricultural Distress."
Words in this poem
- mayhap adv.
- Perhaps; peradventure. [Prov. or Dialectic]
- odds n.
- Difference in favor of one and against another; excess of one of two things or numbers over the other; inequality; advantage; superiority; hence, excess of chances; probability. [See Odd, a.]
- phiz n.
- The face or visage. [Contr. fr. physiognomy.]
- goggle v. i.
- To roll the eyes; to stare. [Cf. Ir. & Gael. gog a nod, slight motion.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Simon is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, Project Gutenberg ebook #15652; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Thomas Hood, Simon, in The Song of the Shirt, and Other Poems (1826–1845), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #15652, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/hood-poetical-works/simon.html, id L20176.
Form and metre
Simon is 66 lines in 3 verse paragraphs. It is in rhyming couplets, 94% of the lines: octosyllabic couplets. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%).
See other poems in octosyllabic couplets, other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AABBCCBB fairA · mareA · hayB · dayB · rentC · sentC · hayB · dayB
- 2 AABBCCDDEEFFGGHHGGIIGGJJGGKKGGLLMMNNOO-- roadA · loadA · cartB · smartB · sayC · hayC · chapD · mayhapD · thenE · tenE · quickF · stickF · clayG · hayG · meH · heH · gayG · hayG · manI · planI · sayG · hayG · bitJ · splitJ · wayG · hayG · coatK · noteK · payG · hayG · iL · therebyL · fiveM · aliveM · phizN · isN · townO · brownO · huzza · hay
- 3 AABBCC--DDEEFFGGHH cartA · smartA · wayB · hayB · greensC · beansC · surely · high · noteD · throatD · grewE · blueE · nailsF · snailsF · passionG · unG · messH · distressH
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| "Well, turn and turn about is fair: | 8 | ········ |
| Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare; | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| But nothing to my load of hay-- | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And cash was wanted for the rent; | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| So up to Lonnon I was sent, | 8 | ········ |
| To sell as prime a load of hay, | 8 | ········ |
| As ever dried on summer's day. | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| "Well, standing in Whitechapel Road, | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| A chap comes up to buy my load, | 8 | ········ |
| And looks, and looks about the cart, | 8 | ········ |
| Pretending to be 'cute and smart; | 8 | ˘/˘····· |
| But no great judge, as people say, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| 'Cause why? he never smelt the hay. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Thinks I, as he's a simple chap, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| He'll give a simple price mayhap, | 8 | ···/˘·/˘ |
| Such buyers comes but now and then, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| So slap I axes nine pun' ten. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| 'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| He taps his leathers with his stick. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| 'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay, | 8 | ˘/····/· |
| Just while we bargin 'bout the hay. | 8 | ········ |
| So in we goes, my chap and me; | 8 | ········ |
| He drinks to I, and I to he; | 8 | ········ |
| At last, says I, a little gay, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| 'It's time to talk about that hay,' | 8 | ········ |
| 'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man, | 8 | ········ |
| Live, and let live--for that's my plan.' | 8 | ········ |
| 'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say, | 8 | ········ |
| It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,' | 8 | ········ |
| And so we chaffers for a bit, | 8 | ········ |
| At long and last the odds we split; | 8 | ········ |
| And off he sets to show the way, | 8 | ········ |
| Where up a yard I leaves the hay. | 8 | ········ |
| Then, from the pocket of his coat, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| He pulls a book, and picks a note. | 8 | ········ |
| 'That's Ten,' says he--'I hope to pay | 8 | ········ |
| Tens upon tens for loads of hay.' | 8 | ········ |
| 'With all my heart, and soon,' says I, | 8 | ········ |
| And feeling for the change thereby; | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| But all my shillings com'd to five-- | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Says he, 'No matter, man alive! | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| There's something in your honest phiz | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;-- | 8 | ········ |
| You'll pay next time you come to town.' | 8 | ········ |
| 'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.' | 8 | ········ |
| 'All right,' says he.--Thinks I 'huzza! | 8 | ······˘/ |
| He's got no bargain of the hay!' | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| "Well, home I goes, with empty cart, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Whipping the horses pretty smart, | 8 | /˘·/˘/˘· |
| And whistling ev'ry yard o' way, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| To think how well I'd sold the hay-- | 8 | ········ |
| And just cotch'd Master at his greens | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And bacon, or it might be beans, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Which didn't taste the worse surely, | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| To hear his hay had gone so high. | 8 | ········ |
| But lord! when I laid down the note, | 8 | ········ |
| It stuck the victuals in his throat, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And chok'd him till his face all grew | 8 | ········ |
| Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue; | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails! | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| They seem'd a-coming out like snails! | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| 'A note,' says he, half mad with passion, | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| 'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!' | 9 | ········· |
| Now, wasn't that a pretty mess? | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| That's Hagricultural Distress." | 8 | ······˘/ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.