A LAY OF REAL LIFE

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones.

WHO ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn?

SILVERSMITH.

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,

And physicked me and made me worse,

Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope, the overseer?

My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me "ugly little sin"?

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home-and made me work,

But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast,
"He hated others' brats the most,"

And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,

Till many a bitter bang I bore?

My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,

Again with father to reside,

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,

"?

And when I played cried "What a noise" Girls always hector over boys

My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,

'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad," And gave me sixpence, "all he had";

But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referr'd me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief,
Or shared my joy-my sole relief?

Myself.

THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT

"I like to meet a sweep-such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of a young sparrow."-ESSAYS OF ELIA.

"A voice cried Sweep no more! Macbeth hath murdered sweep."

SHAKSPEARE.

ONE morning, ere my usual time
I rose, about the seventh chime,
When little stunted boys that climb
Still linger in the street;

And as I walked, I saw indeed
A sample of the sooty breed,
Though he was rather run to seed,
In height above five feet.

A mongrel tint he seemed to take,
Poetic simile to make,

DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break,

White overcoming jet.

From side to side he crossed oblique,

Like Frenchman who has friends to seek,
And yet no English word can speak,
He walked upon the fret:

And while he sought the dingy job
His lab'ring breast appeared to throb,
And half a hiccup half a sob

To

Betray'd internal woe.

cry the cry he had by rote

He yearn'd, but law forbade the note,
Like Chanticleer with roupy throat,
He gaped-but not a crow!

I watched him, and the glimpse I snatched
Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd

With red, as if the soot had catch'd
That hung about the lid;

And soon I saw the tear-drop stray,
He did not care to brush away;
Thought I, the cause he will betray-
And thus at last he did.

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!

But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging.

They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb,

To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum.

But they can't undo natur-as sure as ever the morning begins to peep,

Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep!

For my own part I find my suppressed voice very

uneasy,

And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy.

Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up.

Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup!

If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border,

Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order.

I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathise with us

As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our

own cus.

God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue

our callings?

I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.

For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing,

And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing.

Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks-to do the unpartial job,

If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob.

Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders,

Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows?

There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City;

Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty.

I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses,

And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses.

Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut?

Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut.

Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance,

And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance;

If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather,

For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together.

I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers,