|Now hardly here and there a Hackney-coach
|Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach.
|Now Betty from her master’s bed had flown,
|And softly stole to discompose her own.
|The slipshod prentice from his master’s door,
|Had par’d the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
|Now Moll had whirl’d her mop with dex’trous airs,
|Prepar’d to scrub the entry and the stairs.
|The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
|The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.
|The smallcoal-man was heard with cadence deep,
|’Till drown’d in shriller notes of chimney-sweep.
|Duns at his Lordship’s gate began to meet,
|And brickdust Moll had scream’d through half a
|The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
|Duly let out a nights to steal for fees.
|The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
|And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.
|Jonathan Swift |
[ A Description of the Morning ] [ Verses on the Death of Dr Swift ]