APOLLO now, Sol's carman, drives his stud Home to the mews that's seated in the West, And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames-street mud, Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress'd. So from the stands the empty carts are dragged, The horses homeward to their stables go, And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagged, Prepare to taste the luxury of -- "Wo!" Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar, Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields, And Mr. Sweetman's gig is at the door, To take him to his house in Hackney Fields. Closed are the gates of the West India Docks, Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose, And I, with other careless carmen, flocks To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose. They smoke a pipe -- the shepherd's pipe I wakes, Them skittles pleases -- me the Muse invites, They in their ignorance to drinking takes, I, blessed with learning, takes a pen and writes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER THE BATTLE (OF AUGHRIM) by THOMAS MOORE INTEGRITY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET FESTUBERT: THE OLD GERMAN LINE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO AN AIR ON THE SAMISEN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |