THE TOWN IS ILL BUILT by THOMAS HOOD

THE town is ill-built, and is dirty beside,
For with water it's scantily, badly supplied
By wells, where the servants, in filling their pails,
Stand for hours, spreading scandal, and falsehood, and tales.
And abounds so in smells that a stranger supposes
The people are very deficient in noses.
Their buildings, as though they'd been scanty of ground,
Are crammed into corners that cannot be found.
Or as though so ill built and contrived they had been,
That the town were ashamed they should ever be seen.
And their rooted dislike and aversion to waste
Is suffer'd sometimes to encroach on their taste,
For beneath a Theatre or Chapel they'll pop
A sale room, a warehouse, or mean little shop,
Whose windows, or rather no windows at all,
Are more like to so many holes in the wall.
And four churches together, with only one steeple,
Is an emblem quite apt of the thrift of the people.

In walking one morning I came to the green,
Where the manner of washing in Scotland is seen;
And I thought that it perhaps would amuse, should I write,
A description of what seemed a singular sight.
Here great bare-legged women were striding around,
And watering clothes that were laid on the ground.
While, on t'other hand, you the lasses might spy
In tubs, with their petticoats up to the thigh,
And, instead of their hands, washing thus with their feet,
Which they often will do in the midst of the street,
Which appears quite indelicate, -- shocking, indeed,
To those ladies who come from the south of the Tweed!

Like a fish out of water, you'll think me, my dear,
When our manner of living at present you hear;
Here, by ten in the morning our breakfast is done,
When in town I ne'er think about rising till one;
And at three, oh how vulgar, we sit down and dine,
And at six we take tea, and our supper at nine,
And then soberly go to our beds by eleven,
And as soberly rise the next morning by seven.
How unlike our great city of London, you'll say,
Where day's turned into night, and the night into day.
But indeed to these hours I'm obliged to attend,
There's so very few ways any leisure to spend,
For they ne'er play at cards, Commerce, Ombre, or Loo,
Though they often are carding of wool, it is true.
And instead of "piany's," Italian, sonatos,
At their spinning wheels sitting, they whistle like carters.

A poor man who'd been reading the public events,
Amidst prices of stock, and consols, and per cents,
Observed Omnium, and anxious to know what it meant
With the news in his hand to a Bailie he went,
For he thought the best way to obtain information,
Was by asking at one of the wise corporation.
Mr. Bailie humm'd, ha'd, looked exceedingly wise,
And considered a while, taken thus by surprise,
Till at length the poor man, who impatient stood by,
Got this truly sagacious, laconic reply, --
"Omnium's just Omnium."
Then returning at least just as wise as before,
He resolved to apply to a Bailie no more!

I have seen the Asylum they lately have made,
And approve of the plan, but indeed I'm afraid
If they send all the people of reason bereft,
To this Bedlam, but few in the town will be left.
For their passions and drink are so terribly strong
That but few here retain all their faculties long.
And with shame I must own, that the females, I think,
Are in general somewhat addicted to drink!

Now I speak of divines, in the churches I've been,
Of which four are together, and walls but between,
So as you sit in one, you may hear in the next,
When the clerk gives the psalm, or the priest gives the text.
With respect to their worship, with joy I must say
Their strict bigoted tenets are wearing away,
And each day moderation still stronger appears,
Nor should I much wonder, if in a few years,
The loud notes of the organ the burthen should raise
Midst the chorus of voices, the homage, and praise.
For I cannot conceive for what cause they deny
The assistance of music, in raising on high
Our thanksgiving and psalms, as King David of old,
Upon numberless instruments played, we are told;
Nor to music can theme more sublime be e'er given,
Than of wafting the strains of the righteous to heaven.
They've a custom, a little surprising. I own,
And in practice I think found in Scotland alone.
For in England for penance, in churchyards they stand
In a sheet, while a taper they hold in their hand;
But here in the Church, if the parties think fit,
On a stool called the "Cuttie," for penance they sit,
And, as though absolution they thus did obtain,
Go and sin, then appear the next Sunday again!
Superstition as yet, though it's dying away,
On the minds of the vulgar holds powerful sway,
And on doors or on masts you may frequently view,
As defence against witchcraft, some horse's old shoe.
And the mariner's wife sees her child with alarm
Comb her hair in the glass, and predicts him some harm.
Tales of goblins and ghosts that alarmed such a one
By tradition are handed from father to son.
And they oft will describe o'er their twopenny ale
Some poor ghost with no head, or grey mare without tail,
Or lean corpse in night-cap, all bloody and pale!

Some large markets for cattle or fairs are held here,
On a moor near the town, about thrice in a year.
So I went to the last, found it full, to my thinking,
Of whisky and porter, of smoking and drinking.
But to picture the scene there presented, indeed,
The bold pencil and touches of Hogarth would need.
Here you'd perhaps see a man upon quarrelling bent
In short serpentine curves, wheeling out of a tent,
(For at least so they call blankets raised upon poles,
Well enlightened and aired by the numerous holes,)
Or some hobbling old wife, just as drunk as a sow,
Having spent all the money she got for her cow.
Perhaps some yet unsold, when the market has ceased,
You may then see a novelty, beast leading beast!

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