Poems, moral and descriptive By the late Richard Jago ... (Prepared for the press, and improved by the author, before his death.) To which is added, some account of the life and writings of Mr. Jago |
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The SCAVENGERS.
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 | Poems, moral and descriptive |  |
166
The SCAVENGERS.
A TOWN-ECLOGUE.
“Dulcis odor lucri ox re quâlibet.”
Awake, my Muse, prepare a loftier theme.
The winding valley, and the dimpled stream
Delight not all: quit, quit the verdant field,
And try what dusty streets, and alleys yield.
The winding valley, and the dimpled stream
Delight not all: quit, quit the verdant field,
And try what dusty streets, and alleys yield.
Where Avon wider flows, and gathers fame,
Stands a fair town, and Warwick is its name.
For useful arts entitled once to share
The gentle Ethelfleda's guardian care.
Nor less for deeds of chivalry renown'd,
When her own Guy was with her laurels crown'd.
Now Syren Sloth holds here her tranquil reign,
And binds in silken bonds the feeble train.
No frowning knights in uncouth armour lac'd,
Seek now for monsters on the dreary waste:
In these soft scenes they chace a gentler prey,
No monsters! but as dangerous as they.
In diff'rent forms as sure destruction lies,
They have no claws 'tis true—but they have eyes.
Stands a fair town, and Warwick is its name.
For useful arts entitled once to share
The gentle Ethelfleda's guardian care.
Nor less for deeds of chivalry renown'd,
When her own Guy was with her laurels crown'd.
Now Syren Sloth holds here her tranquil reign,
And binds in silken bonds the feeble train.
No frowning knights in uncouth armour lac'd,
Seek now for monsters on the dreary waste:
In these soft scenes they chace a gentler prey,
No monsters! but as dangerous as they.
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They have no claws 'tis true—but they have eyes.
Last of the toiling race there liv'd a pair,
Bred up in labour, and inur'd to care!
To sweep the streets their task from sun to sun,
And seek the nastiness which others shun.
More plodding wight, or dame you ne'er shall see,
He Gaffer Pestel hight, and Gammer she.
Bred up in labour, and inur'd to care!
To sweep the streets their task from sun to sun,
And seek the nastiness which others shun.
More plodding wight, or dame you ne'er shall see,
He Gaffer Pestel hight, and Gammer she.
As at their door they sate one summer's day,
Old Pestel first essay'd the plaintive lay:
His gentle mate the plaintive lay return'd,
And thus alternately their cares they mourn'd.
Old Pestel.
Old Pestel first essay'd the plaintive lay:
His gentle mate the plaintive lay return'd,
And thus alternately their cares they mourn'd.
Alas! was ever such fine weather seen,
How dusty are the roads, the streets how clean!
How long, ye Almanacks! will it be dry?
Empty my cart how long, and idle I!
Ev'n at the best the times are not so good,
But 'tis hard work to scrape a livelihood.
The cattle in the stalls resign their life,
And baulk the shambles, and th'unbloody knife.
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And turnpikes threaten to compleat my doom.
Wife.
Well! for the turnpike that will do no hurt,
Some say the managers are friends to dirt.
But much I fear this murrain where 'twill end,
For sure the cattle did our door befriend.
Oft have I hail'd 'em, as they stalk'd along,
Their fat the butchers pleas'd, but me their dung.
Old Pestel.
See what a little dab of dirt is here!
But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where?
Yet, on this spot, tho' now so naked seen,
Heaps upon heaps, and loads on loads have been.
Bigger, and bigger, the proud dunghill grew,
Till my diminish'd house was hid from view.
Wife.
Ah! Gaffer Pestel, what brave days were those,
When higher than our house our muckhill rose!
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And mark'd what each load added to its size.
Wrapt in its fragrant steam we often sate,
And to its praises held delightful chat.
Nor did I e'er neglect my mite to pay,
To swell the goodly heap from day to day.
A cabbage once I bought; but small the cost—
Nor do I think the farthing all was lost.
Again you sold its well-digested store,
To dung the garden where it grew before.
Old Pestel.
What tho' the beaus, and powder'd coxcombs jeer'd,
And at the scavenger's employment sneer'd,
Yet then at night content I told my gains,
And thought well paid their malice, and my pains.
Why toils the tradesman, but to swell his store?
Why craves the wealthy landlord still for more?
Why will our gentry flatter, fawn, and lie?
Why pack the cards, and what d'ye call't—the die?
All, all the pleasing paths of gain pursue,
And wade thro' thick, and thin, as we folks do.
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And nothing dirty which good int'rest brings.
Wife.
When goody Dobbins call'd me nasty bear,
And talk'd of kennels, and the ducking-chair,
With patience I cou'd hear the scolding quean,
For sure 'twas dirtiness that kept me clean.
Clean was my gown on Sundays, if not fine,
Nor Mrs. ---'s cap so white as mine.
A slut in silk, or kersey is the same,
Nor sweetest always is the finest dame.
And talk'd of kennels, and the ducking-chair,
With patience I cou'd hear the scolding quean,
For sure 'twas dirtiness that kept me clean.
Clean was my gown on Sundays, if not fine,
Nor Mrs. ---'s cap so white as mine.
A slut in silk, or kersey is the same,
Nor sweetest always is the finest dame.
Thus wail'd they pleasure past, and present cares,
While the starv'd hog join'd his complaint with theirs.
To still his grunting diff'rent ways they tend,
To West-Street he, and she to Cotton-End.
While the starv'd hog join'd his complaint with theirs.
To still his grunting diff'rent ways they tend,
To West-Street he, and she to Cotton-End.
| Poems, moral and descriptive | |