 | The Distressed Poet |  |
49
In usher'd by the Chimney Sweep,
And that discordant sound Old Cloaths,
Croak'd thro' a snuffling Hebrew nose;
Sots from their night's debauch home strolling,
Stage-coaches to the country rolling;
Fishwomen, warm'd with Gin, debate,
All tramping quick to Billingsgate,
Whilst fifty intermingled cries,
In jargon inarticulate rise:
Fogs and black smoke together meet,
As they would both dispute the street,
Agreed, the Atmosphere they share,
And their dark trains cloud all the air.
| The Distressed Poet | |