APOLLO now, Sol's carman, drives his stud Home to the mews that's seated in the West, And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames-street mud, Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress'd. So from the stands the empty carts are dragged, The horses homeward to their stables go, And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagged, Prepare to taste the luxury of -- "Wo!" Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar, Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields, And Mr. Sweetman's gig is at the door, To take him to his house in Hackney Fields. Closed are the gates of the West India Docks, Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose, And I, with other careless carmen, flocks To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose. They smoke a pipe -- the shepherd's pipe I wakes, Them skittles pleases -- me the Muse invites, They in their ignorance to drinking takes, I, blessed with learning, takes a pen and writes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MARY UNWIN by WILLIAM COWPER PHILOMELA by JOHN CROWE RANSOM THE BIRD-BOY by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD THE NUN AT COURT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN INSCRIPTION ON FERGUSSON'S TOMBSTONE by ROBERT BURNS A POTION by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON WORK AND WORSHIP; A LEGEND OF THE DANUBE by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |