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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BRICKLAYER'S LABOURS, by                    
First Line: At length the soft nocturnal minutes fly
Last Line: And all the joyous scene revolves again.
Subject(s): Bricklayers


AT length the soft nocturnal minutes fly,
And crimson blushes paint the orient sky;
When, by a kind of drowsy stretch and yawn,
I ope my eyes, and view the scarlet dawn;
But stealing sleep my vitals still surprise,
And with a slumb'ring softness seal my eyes,
Till open light corroborates the day,
And through the casement darts his signal ray;
When up I start, and view the eastern sky,
And by my mark find six o'clock is nigh.
Then hanging on my threadbare coat and nose,
My hat, my cap, my breeches and my shoes,
With sheepskin apron girt about my waist,
Downstairs I go to visit my repast,
Which rarely doth consist of more than these:
A quartern loaf and half a pound of cheese.
Then in a linen bag, on purpose made,
My day's allowance o'er my shoulder's laid:
And first, to keep the fog from coming in,
I whet my whistle with a dram of gin;
So thus equipped, my trowel in my hand,
I haste to work, and join the ragged band.
And now each one his different post assigned,
And three to three in ranks completely joined,
When 'Bricks and mortar' echoes from on high,
'Mortar and bricks' the common, constant cry.
Each sturdy slave their different labours share,
Some brickmen called, and some for mortar are:
With sultry sweat and blow without allay,
Travel the standard up and down all day.
And now the sun, with more exalted ray,
With glowing beams distributes riper day,
When amidst dust and smoke, and sweat and noise,
'A line, a line,' the foreman cries, 'my boys';
When tuck and pat with Flemish bond they run,
Till the whole course is struck complete and done:
Then on again, while two exalt the quoin,
And draw the midmost men another line.
The course laid out when, through the fleeting air,
A solemn sound salutes the willing ear;
When universal Yo-hos echo straight.
Our constant signal to the hour of eight.
And now precipitant away we steer
To eat our viands, and to get some beer;
Where midst the clamour, noise and smoky din
Of dust, tobacco, chaws and drinking gin,
The short half-hour we merrily do spin.
When for dessert some, with their sunburnt fists,
Cram in a chaw of half an ounce at least,
And then to sweep the passage clean within,
Wash down their throats a quartern full of gin.
And now again the signal greets our ear,
We're called to book, must at the bar appear:
When the grim host examines what we've done,
And scores sometimes devoutly two for one.
And now refreshed again we mount on high,
While one calls 'Mortar', others 'Bricks' do cry,
And then 'A line, a line's the constant sound;
By line and rule our daily labour's crowned,
While to divert the sultry hours along,
One tells a tale, another sings a song.
And now the sun, with full meridian ray,
With scorching beams confirms the perfect day.
Full twelve o'clock, the labourers cry 'Yo-ho',
When some to sleep, and some to dinner go:
Some that have victuals eat; others who've none
Supply the place with drink and gin alone;
Mod'rate in food, but in good beer profuse,
Which for the heat we modestly excuse.
And now the gliding minutes almost gone,
And a loud noise proclaims the hour of one;
Again we reassume the dusty stage,
And mortar chafed again we do engage.
This the most tedious part of all the day,
Full five hours' space to toil without allay:
Now parched with heat, and almost choked with dust,
We join our pence to satiate our thirst.
At length the western breezes gently play,
And Sol declining moderates his ray;
Now the approaching welcome hour draws near,
And now again the signal glads our ear;
The happy hour we waited for all day
At length arrives our labours to repay.
And now, the tools reposited with care
Until the morning rays again appear,
Some homewards bend, some to the alehouse steer,
Others more sober feast on better cheer.
But when the days contract and wintry hours rise,
And sable clouds and fogs invest the skies,
When frost and cold congeal the atmosphere,
And trees disrobed and hoary fields appear;
When all the earth in ice and snow is bound,
And naught but desolation all around,
Then hapless me! I wander up and down,
With half an apron wondrous greasy grown!
With anxious looks my countenance is clad,
And all my thoughts are like the winter, sad!
This scene of life corrodes my troubled mind;
I seek for work, but none, alas! can find;
Sometimes, by chance, I have a grate to set,
To hang a copper, or a hole replete;
A day or two to exercise my skill,
But seldom more, reluctant to my will.
And thus I pass the tedious winter on,
Sometimes repast I have, and sometimes none;
Till cheerful Phoebus, with a grateful ray,
Through vernal airs explores his willing way,
Dispels all cares, and gladdens every vein,
And all the joyous scene revolves again.





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