dimming, alas!

the brazier’s brass,

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—

[pg 224]

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!

“this is a sorry sight,”

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 ever brown and sallow,

with eyes—you cannot see above one pair,

for city clouds of black and yellow—

and artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud,

such sable lilies

and grim daffodilies

drooping, but not for drought, o lud! o lud!

i may as well, while i’m inclined,

just go through all the faults i find:

oh lud! then, with a better air, say june,

could’st thou not find a better tune

to sound with trumpets, and with drums,

than “see the conquering hero comes,”

when he who comes ne’er dealt in blood!

thy may’r is not a war horse, lud,

that ever charged on turk or tartar,

[pg 225]

and yet upon a march you strike

that treats him like—

a little french if i may martyr—

lewis cart-horse or henry carter!