Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make
In this poor overcrowded world more room,
Proposed to shake
Down that immense extinguisher, the dome—
Some humane Martin in the charity Gal-way
I fear would come and interfere,
Save beadle, brat, and overseer,
To walk back in their parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
Islington Wapping-or Pall Mall way!
Thus, people hatched from goose's egg,
Foolishly think à pest a plague,
And in its face their doors all shut,
On hinges oiled with cajeput
Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven,
And turning pale as linen rags
At hoisting up of yellow flags,
While you and I are crying "Orange Boven!”
Why should we let precautions so absorb us,
Or trouble shipping with a quarantine-
When if I understand the thing you mean,
We ought to import the Cholera Morbus !
"The rain it raineth every day.”
THE Dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
On ev'ry window-frame hang beaded damps
Like rows of small illumination lamps,
To celebrate the Jubilee of Showers!
A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves,
The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers,
And from the Houses' eaves
Tumble eaves-droppers.
The hundred clerks that live along the street,
Bondsmen to mercantile and city schemers,
With squashing, sloshing, and galloshing feet,
Go paddling, paddling through the wet, like steamers,
Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend—
Umbrellas pass of every shade of green,
And now and then a crimson one is scen,
Like an Umbrella ripened.
Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking,
While in the George and Dragon
The man is keeping himself dry-and drinking!
The Butcher's boy skulks underneath his tray,
Hats shine shoes don't-and down droop collars,
And one blue Parasol cries all the way
To school, in company with four small scholars!
Unhappy is the man to-day who rides,
Making his journey sloppier, not shorter;
Ay, there they go, a dozen of outsides,
Performing on "a Stage with real water!"
A dripping Pauper crawls along the way,
The only real willing out-of-doorer,
And says, or seems to say,
"Well, I am poor enough-but here's a pourer!"
The scene in water colors thus I paint,
Is your own Festival, you Sloppy Saint!
Mother of all the Family of Rainers!
Saint of the Soakers!
Making all people croakers,
Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers!
And why you mizzle forty days together,
Giving the earth your water-soup to sup,
I marvel-Why such wet, mysterious weather?
I wish you'd clear it up!
Why cast such cruel dampers
On pretty Pic Nics, and against all wishes
Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers,
And volunteer, unasked, to wash the dishes?
Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot,
To cling like lady-birds around a tree-
Why spoil a Gipsy party at their tea,
By throwing your cold water upon hot?
Cannot a rural maiden, or a man,
Seek Hornsey-Wood by invitation, sipping
Their green with Pan,
But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping!
Why upon snow-white table-cloths and sheets,
That do not wait or want a second washing,
Come squashing?
Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets,
As if there were no Water-Cart contractors,
No pot-boys spilling beer, no shop-boys ruddy
Spooning out puddles muddy,
Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors!
A Queen you are, raining in your own right,
Yet oh! how little flattered by report!
Even by those that seek the Court,
Pelted with every term of spleen and spite.
Folks rail and swear at you in every place;
They say you are a creature of no bowel;
They say you're always washing Nature's face,
And that you then supply her
Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel!
The whole town wants you ducked, just as you duck it,
They wish you on your own mud porridge suppered,
They hope that you may kick your own big bucket,
Or in your water-butt go souse! heels up'ard!
They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle,
They'd spill the water in your veins to stop it—
Be warned! You are too partial to a mizzle-
Pray drop it!
ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER,"
O LUD! O Lud! O Lud!
I mean, of course, that venerable town
Mentioned in stories of renown,
Built formerly of mud;
O Lud, I say, why didst thou e'er
Invent the office of a Mayor,
An office that no useful purpose crowns,
But to set Aldermen against each other,
That should be Brother unto Brother-
Sisters at least, by virtue of their gowns?
But still if one must have a Mayor
To fill the Civic chair,
O Lud, I say,
Was there no better day
To fix on, than November Ninth so shivery
And dull for showing off the Livery's livery?
Dimming, alas!
Soiling th' Embroiderers and all the Saddlers,
Sopping the Furriers,
Draggling the Curriers,
And making Merchant Tailors dirty paddlers;
Drenching the Skinners' Company to the skin,
Making the crusty Vintner chiller,
And turning the Distiller
To cold without instead of warm within ;-
Spoiling the bran-new beavers
Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers,
Plastering the Plasterers and spotting Mercers,
Hearty November-cursers-
And showing Cordwainers and dapper Drapers
Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers;
Making the Grocer's company not fit
For company a bit;
Dying the Dyers with a dingy flood,
Daubing incorporated Bakers,
And leading the Patten-makers,
Over their very pattens in the mud-
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!
To quote Macbeth—but oh, it grieves me quite,
To see your Wives and Daughters in their plumes-
White plumes not white-
Sitting at open windows catching rheums,
Not "Angels ever bright and fair,'
But angels over brown and sallow,
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