@3They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, -- They go to church on Sunday; And many are afraid of God -- And more of Mrs. Grundy.@1 I am pacing the Mall in a rapt reverie, I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me, When I'm roused by a ragged and shivering wretch, Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch. He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat; A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat, For he says, 'Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear; On'y try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air.' He eyes my gold chain, as if greedy to crib it; He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet. I pause . . .! I pass on, and beside the club fire I settle that Sophy is all I desire. As I stroll from the club, and am deep in a strophe That rolls upon all that's delightful in Sophy, I'm humbly addressed by an 'object' unnerving, So tatter'd a wretch must be 'highly deserving.' She begs, -- I am touch'd, but I've great circumspection; I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection That cases of vice are by no means a rarity -- The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity. Am I right? How I wish that my clerical guide Would settle this question -- and others beside. For always one's heart to be hardening thus, If wholesome for Beggars, is hurtful for us. A few minutes later I'm happy and free To sip @3Its own Sophykins'@1 five-o'clock tea: Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries, What bushels of rubbish they send her from @3Barry's@1! 'There's a present for @3you@1, Sir!' Yes, thanks to her thrift, My Pet has been able to buy me a gift; And she slips in my hand, the delightfully sly Thing, A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard writhing. 'What a charming @3cadeau@1! and so truthfully moulded; But perhaps you don't know, or deserve to be scolded, That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?' 'Po-oh!' -- says my Lady (she always says 'Pooh' When she's wilful, and does what she oughtn't to do!) 'Hopgarten protests they've no feeling, and so It was only their @3muscular movement@1 you know!' Thinks I (when I've said @3au revoir@1, and depart -- A Comb in my pocket, a Weight -- at my heart), And when wretched Mendicants writhe, there's a notion That begging is only their 'muscular motion.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MIDSUMMER FROST (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE GARDEN OF LOVE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE EDONI: THE WORSHIP OF COTYS by AESCHYLUS THE MORAL FABLES: THE SWALLOW, AND THE OTHER BIRDS by AESOP TO HIS WORSHIPFULL GOOD FRIEND, MAISTER JOHN STEVENTON by RICHARD BARNFIELD A SUMMER DAY by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING WRITTEN ON WHITSUN-MONDAY, 1795 by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS |