@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...TO MILITARY PROGRESS by MARIANNE MOORE TOMMY'S DEAD by SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL CARMEN BELLICOSUM by GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER PUCK AND THE FAIRY, FR. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 14. THE COMPLAINT by MARK AKENSIDE |