Thomas Hood ward 1798 in London geboren, war der Sohn eines Buchhändlers, erhielt eine vortreffliche Erziehung und widmete sich der Kupferstecherkunst. Seine Neigung zur humoristischen Poesie trug aber den Sieg davon; er lieferte Anfangs Vieles für Journale, gab aber dann selbstständig komische Zeitschriften, Almanache und andere Sammlungen heraus, die sich eines ausserordentlichen Beifalls erfreuten, um so mehr, als er sie auch mit komischen Illustrationen seiner eigenen Erfindung ausstattete wie z. B. Whims and Oddities, Little Odes to great folks, Comic Annuals, Hood's own u. s. w. Das Spiel mit Worten kann nicht leicht mehr auf die Spitze getrieben werden, als es von ihm geschehen. Uebrigens ist seine Satyre sittlich und gutmüthig. Er starb 1844.

Unter seinen ernsteren Poesieen sind mehrere, namentlich einige Lieder, so zart, anmuthig, tiefgefühlt und mit Eleganz behandelt, dass sie den besten Productionen dieser Gattung gleich stehen und seinen Namen sicherer auf die Nachwelt bringen werden, als es sein reicher und sprudelnder Witz je zu thun vermöchte.

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Charles Dibdin, der Sohn eines Silberarbeiters, ward 1745 in Southampton geboren und ging
frühzeitig nach London, um dort durch Lieder und Balladen sein Glück zu machen, musste sich aber
als Klavierstimmer forthelfen. 1762 ward er Schauspieler und bald auch Schauspieldichter und
lieferte nun hinter einander mehr als hundert Bühnenstücke; dennoch starb er 1814 in Dürftigkeit.

Seinen eigentlichen Ruhm erntete Dibdin als Volksdichter, er hat nahe an 1200 Lieder hinter-
lassen und die Mehrzahl derselben auch selbst in Musik gesetzt; viele davon sind in das Volk
gedrungen und finden sich in Aller Mund, ganz vorzüglich aber im Mund der Seeleute, deren Lieb-

linge sie sind. Reich an tüchtiger, patriotischer Gesinnung, einfach, warm, natürlich, gefühlvoll, erfüllen sie alle Anforderungen, die man an populäre Poesie machen kann und verdienen durchaus die Verbreitung, die sie fanden.

I sailed from the Down.

I sailed from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how she smack'd through the breeze,

She's a vessel as light to my fancy,

As ever sail'd on the salt seas.

So, adieu! to the white cliffs of Britain,

Our girls, and our dear native shore; For if some hard rock we should split on, We shall never see them any more. But sailors were born for all weathers,

Great guns let it blow high, blow low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar,

I verily thought she'd have sunk; For the wind so began for to alter,

She yaw'd just as thof she was drunk.
The squall tore the mainsail to shivers,

Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain cries;
Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers,
As through the rude tempest she flies.

The storm came on thicker and faster,

As black just as pitch was the sky; When truly a doleful disaster

Befel three poor sailors and I:

Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail,
By a blast that came furious and hard,
Just while we were furling the mainsail
Were every soul swept from the yard.

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried Peccavi;
As for I, at the risk of my neck,
While they sunk down in peace to old Davy,
Caught a rope and so landed on deck:
Well, what would you have? we were stranded,
And out of a fine jolly crew

Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed
But I, and I think twenty-two.

After thus we at sea had miscarried,
Another guess-way sat the wind;
For to England I came and got married,
To a lass that was comely and kind:
But whether for joy or vexation,

We know not for what we were born;
Perhaps I may find a kind station,
Perhaps I may touch at Cape Horn.

For sailors were born for all weathers,
Great guns let it blow high, blow low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

Tom Bowling.

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many, and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair.

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft;

But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands

Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd;
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.

Lovely Nan.

Sweet is the ship that under sail
Spreads her bosom to the gale:
Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;