Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dives, now, hear the Songs of the Slums
And the tenants who live by their wits,
Who know nothing of reading or sums
And would send an Inspector in fits;
Folks who live as they can,
Without purse, without plan,
At the cost of the wealthy and simple
And more fortunate neighbours,
The fat priest and the prude with her dimple,
And by other men's labours;
They have only one notion of right,
And that not in the Bible—it's might.

But remember the devil is not
Quite as black as some persons may say,
And though cadgers bear many a spot
There is gold in the dirtiest clay;
They may borrow your coat,
Or perform on your throat
For the sake of the pearls or the corals—
If you happen to struggle,
For they have funny manners and morals
And are awkward to juggle.
But just treat them with liberal sense
And they'll toast you—though at your expense.

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If they hustle and maul you at times
Count it in with the work of the day,
Not that loafers are partial to crimes
But it's only their ignorant way;
For somehow they must live,
And if Dives won't give
They must collar whatever comes handy
And will boil up the kettle,
Be it Dutchman or drunkard or dandy,—
They must prove they have mettle;
If you meet them as human and kin,
They'll be tender and leave you your skin.

But they are not all idle and thieves
And not one had your outfit and start,
And the rogue who so lightly relieves
You of money may have a good heart;
Some are honest and kind,
With the weather and wind,
When these offer them luck and fair chances
And the troublesome Bobbies
Let them try more respectable dances
And forsake legal hobbies;
Though they relish no toil they can drudge,
And would more but for jury and judge.

LITTLE BOY JACK.

Waif of the gutter and child of the street
Strolling along with his bare brown feet,
Spurning the bonds of society still,
And hearing the clink of the tradesman's till
With an envious twitch at a sound so sweet,
And dodging policemen's quest with a will,
Little boy Jack
Little cares for a whack
If it comes with a casual squall in his way,
Like a pinch of the frost in the wintry weather,
For he takes all alike in the work of the day
And lumps them together.

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Only a bubble on life's dark tide
Tossing about on the waters wide,—
Nowhere a friend with a helping hand
Staying his steps or wiping the brand
From the sullied brow with no wholesome pride,
And bringing the wreck at last to land—
Little boy Jack
Goes his devious track,
Cropping up, coming down, from pillar to post,
And as ripe for a revel as glad of a copper,
Rising here, rising there, as an unlaid ghost
Ever pert and improper.

Born in a cellar and bred on the tramp,
Bearing the stain of the outcast stamp,
Beaten and tumbled along the dim road
That the vagabond treads with his careless load,
Hating the sunlight and hugging the lamp,
With the constant prick of his hunger's goad,
Little boy Jack
Carries too on his back
All the vice of the pavement and curse of his kin,
As he slouches apace like a lamb to the slaughter
With a passion for tricks and a weakness for gin,
And a hatred of water.

Motherless, homeless, yet he is brave,
Never a coward and never a slave;
Armed with a bayonet, broken in, led,
Might not he when a man his life-blood shed
For his country's honour he lived to save,
And die for the flag on a soldier's bed?
Little boy Jack,
With his wondrous knack
For a double share of the flouts and falls
Which to him have a sweet and savage wiling,
And for running his head on the iron walls,
Though he comes up smiling.

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IRISH PAT.

I have only a bit of a quarrel with Pat—
Not of course that he's dirty
And though thirteen looks thirty
And is tattered and towzled with hair like a mat,
Or is vicious and vagrant
And decidedly fragrant
Of tobacco and beer and unspeakable things
(Not in vessels and vials)
Of his native Seven Dials
And the odour which to this queer neighbourhood clings;
But my quarrel is this, and a suitable text,
That you never can guess what his trick will be next.

He is saucy, no doubt, but I love merry Pat,
Like those nondescript creatures
With impossible features—
Head or tail either end, perhaps dog, perhaps cat;
If he takes that direction,
He will show an affection
That your Board School phenomenon never could feel—
At a wave of your finger,
When a hero might linger,
He would fight to the death and prove stiffer than steel;
Though I own with regret for a copper or cup,
He would greatly prefer just to double you up.

A true pickle indeed is the frolicsome Pat,
For he slips out of messes
And law's iron caresses
To go souse in again—he thinks nothing of that;
Ah, but he knew no other
Than the street as a mother,
And was tumbled about by bad teachers and tost
From the arch to the cellar,
Without your good umbrella
Or warm coat betwixt him and the rain and the frost;
And no School Board on him had five minutes to spare,
With pianos and prate and grandmotherly care.

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There are loafers and loafers, but mischievous Pat
Has the laziest paces
And the oddest grimaces,
Always lounging, half ignorant what he is at;
He reads posters and dockets,
With his hands in his pockets
When at least they are not in some credulous friend's;
For he likes Eden's apple
And prefers his Whitechapel
To Whitehall and red tape and the rubbish it sends;
But he'd give you a “tanner” if down on your luck,
Nor deny you his bottle or orange to suck.

Under gaslight more often than sunlight roams Pat,
With a keen eye for profit
And what he may score off it
In a masterly way at your cost with his bat;
For he has the right ticket
And will keep up his wicket
When the bigger knaves fall at the bowling of fate;
His defence is so ready
And his batting so steady,
That his victim mistakes him at times for a mate;
And he plays honest rogue with such infinite zest,
You forgive him the wrong and remember the jest.

Oh, his Irish blue eyes are a fortune for Pat,
And ensure him an innings
In the face of all sinnings,
And the fact that he never will wear his own hat;
While the smile just in season
Quite forbids any reason
For suspecting his hand of the blow or the loss,
And his innocent asking
Makes the best kind of masking
When he sighs of his errors and says he is dross;
For you cannot find fault with his manners or smile,
And his principles seem far above petty guile.

If he seems least alert I am careful with Pat,
For his doubtful deportment
And paraded assortment

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Of preposterous airs, prove he smells out a rat;
Then I know he is waiting,
And I see he is baiting
A sly trap for the simple who want to be caught;
Be it only a carriage
Or a meeting or marriage,
Yet he is not the boy to give labour for naught;
He will hook something good, though he follows it far,
If it's merely the end of a half-smoked cigar.

If he tumbles, he falls on his feet, lucky Pat,
And when judgment is spoken
Still he comes off unbroken,
For the net holding mackerel lets outs the sprat;
And he takes the brief sentence
With the sweetest repentance
And deplores with a sob the indelible stain;
But though quitting seclusion
With most tearful effusion,
He returns to his haunts and bad habits again;
For the passion, alas, is bred deep in the bone,
And the wicked police will not let him alone.

BLIND BART.

Poor blind Bart
Cannot see, but his heart
Would make up for the desolate fate—
And the shadow that shuts out the troubles
Of the world from his pitiful state,
And yet doubles;
O therefore his lot
Has a blankness as well as a blot;
Though he guesses
God's marvellous creatures,
And shapes for himself while he dresses
In glory and unfallen features.

Poor blind Bart
Cannot steal from the mart,
As his fellows whose eyes are their own

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Though they sell them so cheap to the devil,
But to suffer at last grief unknown
For their revel;
But he from the dark
Stretches vainly dim hands for one spark;
As he blunders
Along his lone journey,
Strange weaving of truth and false wonders—
A knight without arms in a tourney.

Poor blind Bart
Cannot take a boy's part
In the battle of life, yet he prays
Like a man in the neighbouring chapel;
Where the ranter on Sunday displays
His bright lapel
And fearful new coat—
Where his greasy ineptitudes float;
But the fashion
To him is as nothing,
He hears but the Tale of the Passion,
And sees and is fed and has clothing.

Poor blind Bart
Had a terrible start
In the race where the helpless go down,
He is only a victim of weakness;
And he wears it indeed like a crown
With brave meekness,
And bows to the rod
As he gropes for his Father and God;
His mean living
Prepares what is mortal
For change, and he feels no misgiving
But knocks like a child at death's portal.

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DEAF DAVE.

Wee deaf Dave
From the grave
Just keeps out, and no more;
And the death at no distance
He knew long before,
Though no hand is stretched out once to offer assistance;
He is chary of tongue,
And has never been young;
He was born in the world quite a hundred years old,
And has now more than doubled
That babe life so troubled;
He's always athirst and is always acold.

Wee deaf Dave
Smells the grave
Yawning close at his side,
As the heretic faggots
That chasten his pride;
And around him and over him tumble the maggots,
He dreams in the dark
Shutting in with no spark;
In that ominous realm where the sounds are as ghosts
Far away, and a curtain
Descends on uncertain
Existence that's haunted with shades of dead hosts.

Wee deaf Dave
Loves the grave,
And his favourite perch
Is a jolly tall tombstone
Beside the grey church,
Where he trusts soon to hear the great trumpet of doom's tone;
He's blasted and thin,
Only bones and the skin;
Generations of vice have left brandings that tell
On his brow low and wrinkled,
And queer spots are sprinkled
On features that look as if hot out of hell.

465

Wee deaf Dave
Is the grave
Of a mother's young heart;
He encloses the ashes
That burned out their past
In a fury of passion and brief wicked flashes;
High purpose, though dim,
Is all buried in him;
And he carries about him, for better or worse,
In his pilgrimage muddy,
Like beacon lights ruddy,
The dreadful bequest of a homicide's curse.

CHRIS.

Fair-haired Chris
Has forever a smile at command,
And at this
He is perfect, and none can withstand
The bright face like a blessing,
The manners caressing
That twine all about you a beautiful wreath;
Yes, he beams like an angel, but what is beneath?
For the charms are a vagrant
And transient breath,
And the blossom so fragrant
Is blossom of death.

Merry Chris
Is a mask of a horrible shape,
And the bliss
He assumes hides a lecherous ape
With unspeakable vices,
Whom nothing suffices;
The jubilant laugh and the innocent look,
Are the baits that he smears on the murderous hook;
For his heart's black obscurity
Is a black tide,
And the love and the purity
Are just outside.

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Golden Chris
Woos damnation in drink like the rest,
And the hiss
Of the serpent sounds under his jest;
A mere baby he follows
The vilest and wallows
In garbage of sin as a sow in the mire,
And beyond his brute appetites feels no desire;
Though he seems hardly seven
For ruin he's ripe,
Holds the gin palace heaven
And swears by his pipe.

And yet Chris
Could be tamed, ere the mischief is done,
By a kiss
And with kindness might surely be won;
In that nebulous nature
God's own legislature
Is written and conscience is there not yet dead,
And the angel at bottom might still raise his head:
There is hope for the purging
His dungeon of sin
With its passionate surging,
If love would begin.

JOSH.

Poor old Josh is a miser
And scarce numbers ten,
But is yet vastly wiser
Than others though men;
He began with a shilling he found in the street
And supposes the world is now all at his feet,
And his serious life has no room for a smile
For the shilling has grown and is quite a grand pile;
Moses even is jealous
And envies his gold,
When he sees him so zealous
In sunshine and cold.

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For old Josh loves his labour
And carries a broom,
And can tell a rich neighbour
In dreariest gloom;
While he is so polite to sweet ladies with bags
And to gentlemen passing with fidgety nags,
That he soon gets the coppers to add to his store
And keeps pegging away at his work making more:
Ah, you don't see him tossing
His money in play,
But he sticks to his crossing
And to pitches that pay.

Dear old Josh waxes bolder
The farther he dares,
And his brave little shoulder
Lifts ponderous cares;
There's a world of anxiety crammed in that head
Furrowed early with thought, which is coined into bread
And good clothing and stuff for his wonderful stock,
In the bank of the teapot or castaway sock;
While he terribly pinches
Himself with his load,
And proceeds but by inches
Along his small road.

Grave old Josh takes no pleasure
On shore or the Thames,
And he cannot find leisure
For larking or games;
On the Sunday he sleeps and believes it no sin,
And allows but one meal because nothing comes in;
In the straw of a packing case, shared with odd guests,
Like a dormouse coiled up he religiously rests;
Boys about him get prisoned
And never will rise,
He grows daily more wizened
And wealthy and wise.

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DUMB TOM.

Tom is dumb, Tom is dumb,
And his poor little mouth
May be pinched by the winter or tortured with drouth,
And his body grow numb—
But O what does it matter
To others about him, who grumble and chatter?
Tom is tiny, you see,
And with weakness he trembles
And dreadful suspicion he never dissembles—
He looks always ready to tumble or flee;
He is common and mean,
And forlorn and unclean.

Tom is dumb, Tom is dumb
And his desolate eyes
That refuse to meet yours have a savage surprise;
And the dirty brown thumb,
Which he bites in sheer famine,
Would show bitter marks if you stopt to examine;
Tom is helpless and lost,
A wan fugitive hunted
By all, and grows downward more wretched and stunted,
In sweltering heat and the fangs of the frost;
And his brow seems the stage
Not of childhood, but age.

Tom is dumb, Tom is dumb,
And the veriest child,
Though his lips seem as if they could never have smil'd;
And he owns not a chum
In that infinite City,
If sometimes a dog may bestow on him pity.
Tom goes silent, a thief,
For his fingers are clever,
And passes from darkness to darkness for ever
Untaught and unknown with the gnawing of grief;
But he's human, that blight
Only asks for more light.

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Tom is dumb, Tom is dumb,
And yet clearer his voice
Tells to those who may hearken he had not a choice;
It beseeches a crumb
Of that prodigal kindness,
Which beams upon all except him in his blindness.
Tom would keep within bounds,
And look bright with young beauty—
If properly washed and just trained to know duty,
Fed, clothed—and no more make those horrible sounds.
In that volume though sealed,
Our offence is revealed.

BRAVE LITTLE DICK.

Over the crossings and under the arch,
Waif of the weather,
Ragged and dirty and still on the march,
Blown like a feather,
Here round a corner and there down a court,
Racing one moment, then pulling up short,
Brave little Dick
Yet behaves like a brick;
Though he lives needingly,
He bears unheedingly
Frost and the rain with sharp hunger and thirst
Always, to help his lone mother the first.

Give him a penny you never will miss
Out of your plenty,
Darling, who grudge not the colly a kiss—
You, tall and twenty;
You, dear old lady, all muffled in furs,
Kindness itself when your kitten but purrs;
Brave little Dick
Has too much of the stick,
While he fares drearily
Taking things cheerily,
Singing and laughing and jesting his way
Nobly, if built of a commoner clay.

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Burly policeman, just turn a blind eye
On his mad capers,
Hustling and begging a bit on the sly—
Think of the Papers!
Don't be so hard on him, you are in weal,
He is not sure of a single half meal;
Brave little Dick
Far too often is sick,
Starving on strainingly
But uncomplainingly;
Law must not rob of repute and of pence
Weakness, and wink at rich sinners' offence.

Here is a shilling! The devil take pride,
When it is cruel!
Yours is a soil that is mainly outside,
Over a jewel;
Iron the grit and most faithful the heart,
Ready the wit and the hand with its part;
Brave like Dick,
Though your troubles come thick
All life is vanity,
And old humanity
Cleaves to us last, and when earth's glitter goes
Slippers of satin walk after brown toes.

MADCAP NED.

There was never a boy in the City of London
Quite a match for its Ned
With such hands and such head
And for doing rash things that were better left undone;
He was clever at all,
At upsetting a stall
Or a gentleman proudly pursuing his travels
Unprepared for a fall
And a study of mire and the nature of gravels—
Ned was ever at home with the rackets and ravels;
But his bosom could feel

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And was steady as steel,
Madcap Ned,
And he carried a kingdom of cares on his head.

For he had a poor brother at home, a dear cripple,
And so life for our Ned
Was not all gingerbread,
And he never could gorge and he never would tipple;
For that suffering lot
Kept him true to the spot,
And he picked up odd halfpence and toiled at chance labours
For the boiling the pot;
While relieving at times his more fortunate neighbours
Of surperfluous wealth they would waste upon tabors
And the dance and the song,
Which he thought clearly wrong,
Naughty Ned,
Who was glad of the crumbs of their gilt gingerbread.

He could fight like the devil and did with all comers,
But they could not beat Ned
Though more furnished and fed,
And his body was small and had seen but twelve summers;
For he loved a good fight
Whether foolish or right,
And he hit out so straight and so hard from the shoulder
With an Irish delight,
While he liked a big target however much older,
And the heaviest punishment made him the bolder;
He was tough as Tom Sayers
If he did not say prayers,
Stocky Ned
Not half clothed, not half grown, and not properly fed.

But believe me, my friend, in a brawl or tight corner,
I would rather have Ned
With no weakness like dread

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By my side than your sabretached swaggering scorner;
And no white kid gloved swell
With his lavender smell
Would have bottom like his and his cut-and-thrust motion,
Or bear buffets as well;
His the muscular piety, dog-like devotion,
And a workman-like style with no cant or commotion;
To the last he is game,
Always there and the same
Honest Ned,
With no trouble of conscience or shadow of dread.

“CRIP” NAT.

Small “Crip” Nat goes on crutches,
And whistles a song
As he hobbles along
Quite regardless of smutches
Through rain and the mire and the down-beaten smoke,
Brimming over with merriment and the last joke;
He's a pure-bred albino
And horribly lame,
But he loves the casino
And any wild game;
If you want the new ditty just rattled off pat,
Merely go to Whitechapel and ask for “Crip” Nat.

Small “Crip” Nat will out-cozen
Old Moses the Jew,
Though his chattels are few
And his years not a dozen:
He is cunning incarnate, and no one can steal
Half as smartly as he or surpass in a “deal.”
Ah, his sticks are a treasure
To him in hard cash,
If you once feel their measure
You'll know they are ash;
Though they say that in dancing he shines as in chat,
And there is nothing wrong in his legs with “Crip” Nat.

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Small “Crip” Nat has a curly
Round head, and his face
Is one comic grimace,
And whoe'er saw him surly?
His hair ev'ry morning is carefully groomed,
With a brush that as rubbish might long have been doomed;
Though the three or four bristles
Yet left are a joy,
As he carelessly whistles,
And no vulgar toy;
And he deems no possession is finer than that,
Which makes almost a gentleman funny “Crip” Nat.

Small “Crip” Nat is too heedless
In judgments of life,
And declares that a wife
Is expensive and needless;
A luxury meant for the titled and rich,
Folks not bred in the gutter and born in a ditch;
While, if most eggs are addled
And doubtful is bliss,
He declines to be saddled
With bondage like this;
And he thinks that, if liberty can't turn him fat,
There is less hope in marriage—at least for “Crip” Nat.

“CRAB” JEAN.

Jean is leggy and lanky
And cross-made and cranky,
And never content;
On her sorrowful face
Sits the sourest grimace,
And she's never unbent.
O she looks as if dug out of earth and still dusty
With darkness and stains
And the mould that remains—

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Which no doubt makes her still more distempered and crusty;
She can't help being mean,
Just because she's “Crab” Jean.

Jean is ruffled and rumpled
And crookèd and crumpled,
And whining all day;
Fond of sitting alone
With a stick or a stone,
And not seen once to play.
For her parents both gamble and guzzle like fishes—
They throw chairs about
And then keep her without,
And when they have done eating she licks the bare dishes;
So she is very lean,
Wretched hungry “Crab” Jean.

Jean is toppled and tumbled
Around, and has stumbled
Along through the years;
Sorrow is her black bread,
And there's grey on her head
And her cup has been tears.
Ah, she is all great eyes that look harried and haunted
With watching and care,
And their pitiful stare
Turns away to dead walls as afraid to be taunted;
And she never was clean,
But she's only “Crab” Jean.

Jean is dreary and draggles
Her limbs, as she straggles
Through darkness and strife;
Peering out, with dim gaze,
On the hubbub and haze
Of inscrutable life.
For she feels a blind creature that frets at its muzzle,
And draws a long chain
Of oppression and pain,

475

And tries idly to break the still-deepening puzzle;
O what angel will wean,
From her troubles, “Crab” Jean?

LIZ.

Lazy Liz has a head that is fuzzy as fur
And she looks like a kitten,
If rubbed the right way she will certainly purr,
But if not you'll be bitten.
There she lies on the doorstep and basks in the sun,
In her unadorned patches;
And though free with scratches,
I know they are mostly in innocent fun!
There she lies in her plumpness, a picture to make
For a mother to keep,
Half-awake,
Half-asleep.

Lazy Liz is an animal more than a girl,
And a thing to be cuddled
And kissed and kept far from the racket and whirl,
Wherein we must be huddled;
She has no sense of time, and no talent for toil
And exists for mere slumber,
Like pure precious lumber,
Curled up by herself in a beautiful coil.
If you stroke her, those big eyes of drowsiest ken
Will with something like pain
Ope, and then
Shut again.

Lazy Liz only rouses to eat and to drink
And grows visibly fatter,
She cannot afford to lose even one wink
On a less urgent matter;
Sometimes a stray dog has been seen on her head
And without her awaking,
Of course from mistaking
Her hair for a doormat conveniently spread;

476

While the sparrows come down and alight on her neck
And, completing her pose,
Hop and peck
At her nose.

Lazy Liz has been known to sleep twice round the clock
And then still to be sleepy,
In spite of four fights and the constable's knock
Which made other folks creepy;
Her large-lidded eyes have the nebulous look
As of far-away being
And other-world seeing,
When opening a moment their mystical book.
And I fancy the “kitten” we pet is no clue,
Though it's nicely put on,
And the true
Child is gone.

LIL.

Look at butterfly Lil,
Never staid, never still,
Here and there like a vision of lightning
And fun,
In the sun
Or the shadow, yet equally bright'ning
The beauties of each
With her frolicsome reach!
She is fairest of fair things and shamefully fickle,
In love with herself and with any kind boy
Who provides her a toy—
With a tongue like a sickle.

Look at butterfly Lil
With her volatile will,
Always glad of new choices and changes—
Though sick;
And the stick
Even opens to her happy ranges!

477

She welcomes a blow,
Just because of the glow
And the exquisite sense of relief that comes after;
She's good grit and seasoned by weather and lack,
And she takes the worst whack
With the medicine of laughter.

Look at butterfly Lil,
In the heaviest ill
With a snap of her bold grimy fingers
At pain,
Or the rain
And the cold, or the worry that lingers!
And, failing her food,
No less merry her mood;
Who's the worse for a trifle like losing a dinner,
When mischief remains with its riches and store?
So she troubles no more,
And does not grow the thinner.

Look at butterfly Lil,
In the dolorous mill
Of her lot, that looks fair but in fiction
And song,
Waxing strong
And more bright with the blasts of affliction!
To the backbone she's game,
Ever pert and the same,
Though a child with a hardness and wit beyond guessing;
A doubtful companion—as in the wrong stall,
And a torment to all
But yet somebody's blessing.

SISS.

Saucy Siss is a sunbeam that breaks through a cloud,
Which it softens in manifold ways
When she plays;
And her mother, the fat apple-woman, is proud
Of the darling who brightens her days,
Though she strays;

478

If the direst misfortune
Should ever importune
Her presence or path, she would turn it to gold;
There is no one like Siss
For a game or a kiss,
There is no one as bashful and no one as bold.

Saucy Siss is arrayed in superior dress,
In a garment of wonderful hue
And light blue;
From a hat that's all feathered and fluffy one tress
Just lets out in soft yellow a clue,
That is true;
For the whole is good metal,
Each bud and each petal,
Each thorn that assures you she's healthy and strong;
There is no one like Siss
For a game or a kiss,
There is no one more ready for sugar or song.

Saucy Siss is the joy of her household, and all
Her young playmates float down on the tide
At her side;
She is clothed with such splendour and stands up so tall,
And her petticoat flutters out wide
In its pride;
She has jewels and spangles,
And treasures she dangles
About her, and then her deportment is grand;
There is no one like Siss
For a game or a kiss,
There is no one whose look is like hers a command.

Saucy Siss is the plague and the blessing of each
Who is hers by affection or kin,
And steps in
To her web for the victims she knows she can reach
With the wiles she is eager to spin
As a gin;
She seems evermore smiling
And gay and beguiling,

479

And coaxes out coins you determined to keep;
There is no one like Siss
For a game or a kiss,
There is no one as regnant awake or asleep.

LOO.

Loo is daring and dusky,
And speaks in a husky
Low voice with a sinister scowl,
And her hair
Is like midnight, and she like a shadowy owl
That delights in the gloom as a cloud in the air;
She looks common and ugly
In feature and face,
But in bed sleeping snugly
She assumes a new grace;
I once paid her a visit, as often I do,
And there found in her place a bright angel—not Loo.

Loo is unwashed and haggard
At morning, a laggard
And grumbles to leave her poor couch;
But at eve
She flares up like the gas, and is ready to slouch
On her mission of darkness to forage and thieve;
With her heavy lips pouted,
Her forehead all creast
And her frock furred and clouted,
She seems a wild beast;
But in spite of her crossness she's easy to woo,
Though not easy to win in her tantrums is Loo.

Loo has marrow and muscle
And shines in a tussle,
Prepared for a blow or a scratch,
And her fist
For a child's has a vigour one hardly could match;
Only try, and you'll see who is first to desist.

480

She is often quite sober
If penury calls,
And as grave as October
When the crimson leaf falls;
If she washes her lips in beer sometimes, we too
Are as erring without the excuses of Loo.

Loo to me looks enchanted,
A maiden transplanted
From bowers where blossoms are gems
And birds sing;
And I still see, betwixt the bare winterly stems,
All the promise and sweet resurrection of Spring;
When her dark grey eye flashes,
I think of the palm
That shoots up from its ashes
Renewed like a psalm;
And if Christ were to traverse the slums, I know who
Would be hid in His arms—it would be wicked Loo.

PRUE.

She has healthy round cheeks
Like the blossom of apple,
And freshness one seeks
All in vain from Whitechapel;
The tangles that tumble about her fair head
Form a beautiful cluster,
But might want a duster
To make them the proper and perfect gold thread;
And her eyes' merry blue,
With their beaming
And dreaming,
Light up a sweet picture of childhood called Prue.

She has pretty curved lips
Full as rosy as coral,
Though her fingers' brown tips
Deal in mud for its moral;
Her ears are like shells polished white by the waves

481

Till they curl up and glisten,
Which came out to listen
And still keep the music in murmurous caves;
But her tongue can be rue
And its twitter
Quite bitter,
If neighbours presume to impose upon Prue.

She has naked soiled feet
That seem fresh in creation,
As sprung from the street
Like a new revelation;
While her wonderful legs are all bonny and bare
Nor asserted demurely,
And carry securely
The thoughts of a queen and a kingdom of care;
And her general hue
To each gusset
Is russet,
Reminding of earth—for an earth-child is Prue.

She has garments of tags
And the Whitechapel vesture,
Half ribands, half rags,
But a tyrannous gesture;
With the ways of a woman and face of a child,
And a laugh as delicious
As softly seditious,
And notions and words in a babblement wild;
The infallible clue
To her graces'
Embraces
Is peppermint, which is resistless for Prue.

“STAR.”

When the darkness is thickest
And shadows come down,
Or the pulses beat quickest
And skies wear a frown;

482

O her soft little hand falls as dew upon pain,
With a flutter,
And utter
Relief to its chain;
And the wound of the weary forgets its old scar,
When she touches the stain—
Little “Star,”
Happy “Star.”

Though her clothes are so spotted
With weather and wear,
And the burden allotted
Is heavy to bear;
Yet she always is cheery in want, and her eyes
Have a glory
And story
Like news from the skies;
And the prisoning care then relaxes its bar,
When her love on it lies—
Little “Star,”
Happy “Star.”

If her manners are simple
Or rugged in deed,
Still the red of her dimple
Flames up at your need;
She is ready to help you, in tune with that blush
Like the clover,
While over
You breathing a hush;
For her springs of compassion are not very far,
And for misery gush—
Little “Star,”
Happy “Star.”

Do not deem she is clever
Or learnéd in books,
Though the Gospel seems ever
Writ large in her looks;
Do not ask for proprieties or pretty dress
And your lustre,
But trust her—

483

She will not transgress;
She is faithful and fond, if some blemishes mar,
You will have to confess—
Little “Star,”
Happy “Star.”

“DOT.”

Dumpy “Dot”
Is the smallest
Of dear girly things,
A bright spot
That feels tallest
When trying her wings;
And in thick London vapour,
Where gaslights burn low
And shops hardly show,
She shines out like a taper—
You could read any paper,
By her fairy glow.

Dumpy “Dot”
Is the brightest
Of children I see,
Though her lot
Is not lightest—
She's brisk as a bee;
And she gathers her honey
From pavement and mire,
In tattered attire
Looking roguish and funny—
She picks up her money
And toys, at desire.

Dumpy “Dot”
Is the sweetest
Of innocent loves,
Though she's not
The discreetest;
Her voice is a dove's;

484

And the chimes of her chatter
Go straight to the heart
With a tune more than art;
And her feet have a patter,
All troubles to scatter
And comfort each smart.

Dumpy “Dot”
Is a pickle,
Yet no one would fret
If the pot
In her fickle
Career were upset;
But her likes have a flavour
Of commerce and greed,
And her business-like creed
Gives the true city savour;
For she won't sell one favour,
Till properly fee'd.

“STUMPS.”

Tiny toddling
And waddling
Unclassified “Stumps,”
There is no one resembling that form,
Like a storm
In a tea cup, excepting perhaps her doll “Dumps;”
Though past mistress of talking
She's prentice at walking,
Explorer of pavements and dust in the street,
With a talent for tumbles
Devoid of all grumbles,
Which makes her though dirty surpassingly sweet.

Pretty hustling
And bustling
Impertinent “Stumps”
Goes careering full tilt with her tread
Right ahead,

485

And indifferent still to the cruelest bumps;
What are warnings of mothers
Or watchings of brothers,
To babies of two who can never stop still?
Like a steam-engine puffing,
And heedless of cuffing
And counsels, she follows her own wayward will.

Ragged, restless
And nestless,
Adventuring “Stumps,”
Better known far away from her kin
Than within
In the home where she finds less affection than thumps;
In the miriest quarter,
Like ducks in the water
She paddles and rolls as none better can do,
And returns from her study
Deliciously muddy,
Half-frockless, all fearless, with only one shoe.

Rough and rambling
And scrambling
Ineffable “Stumps”—
I often admire her at play
On my way,
Like a new dear wee monster just hatched with wild jumps;
She is perfectly charming,
Though somewhat alarming
When tacked on to my coat tails and greedy of pence;
But she looks brown and beautiful,
Gaily undutiful,
All naked nature, without one pretence.

NAN.

We all know little Nan,
We all love little Nan—
Yes, in spite of her begging and petulant dirt
Which has claims on our notice it should not assert;

486

For if tiny she's built on a womanly plan,
Though she's often half-dressed and is wholly ungirt;
And she's wilful and lazy
With mischievous moods,
And her notions are hazy
Of other folk's goods;
Yet I'd give her the pick of my treasures and chattels,
To hear for five minutes how sweetly she prattles.

We all know little Nan,
We all love little Nan,
Though she comes from Whitechapel and breaths of its air,
And has boots much too big and impossible hair,
And seems packed by mistake in too narrow a span,
For she's bonny in rags and when naughty looks fair;
And if pert she is pleasant
And sweet as a kiss,
While her laugh is a present
That no one would miss;
I am sure no two feet have as pretty a patter,
And wish her dear cheeks would just grow a bit fatter.

We all know little Nan,
We all love little Nan,
Though she never was properly washed since her birth,
And would seem to fine ladies a thing of no worth,
If compared with a pug or a Japanese fan;
But to me she is precious and racy of earth;
Though her conduct is shady
As well as her skin,
I'll bet your fine lady
Sinks deeper in sin;
And I'd greatly prefer a soiled face with affection,
To cleanness which ends and begins in complexion.

We all know little Nan,
We all love little Nan,
With her impudent tongue and her rollicking ways
As she stumbles along in bad courses, and strays
And regardless of rights gathers all that she can—
But she has her good angel at times, when she prays;

487

If she only had teaching,
Example and love,
She would soon be outreaching
White wings of a dove
To the sunlight and fly from her evil in terror;
She took the wrong turning at first—just in error.

TOD THE COSTER. I.

Here's the king of all costers
That Whitechapel fosters,
Within its dark haven of mischief and muck;
This he looks, this he knows,
While his honest face glows
As he trundles along his magnificent truck,
With the freightage of fish
Or the fruits that are ripe,
And whatever you wish—
Not forgetting his pipe;
Any girl would feel fluttered or pleased with a nod—
When he passed with his cargo of treasures—from Tod.

He is cheeky and chatters,
And sometimes he scatters
A handful of nuts for the children about;
Though we cannot deny,
If the trade goes awry,
He is quite as prepared and as free with a clout.
In his waistcoat of red
And a wonderful hat,
With his confident tread
He looks jolly and fat.
Be it onions or apples, a herring or cod,
You are sure of fair dealing and measure with Tod.

He can tell a good story,
And swears he's a Tory
And sticks to his Church and believes in his Peer;
He declares there's no fight
In the Rads., who delight
But in prating and rob the poor man of his beer.

488

So he votes for the Swells,
Not the swabbers of ink,
Though when spinning his “spells”
He's a devil to drink.
But he's always well drest and respectably shod,
And as sober as you till the evening is Tod.

He is widely respected,
And might be elected
A “Member” he says, but can't yet lend a hand;
Though if troubles should come,
And he prophesies some,
Then perhaps he might make it convenient to “stand.”
And I'd rather have him
With one notion held tight,
Than the babblers who swim
In confusion and night;
For he'd never let us bear the foreigner's rod,
And a patriot heart with his failings has Tod.

“MISTER JOHN.”

He was once a small tradesman who kept a small shop,
And as good as his neighbours
Or better for labours,
But rather too fond at all times of a drop;
So the liquor ran in
And the money ran out,
And although he grew stout
Yet the business got thin;
Till at length it took wings in a desperate hurry,
And persons were kindly but still they moved on,
For they now would not worry
Their friend “Mister John.”

Thus he went down the stream that was mainly of beer,
But a little too present;
And at first it seemed pleasant,

489

But coffers waxed empty and then things looked queer.
His companions, who helped
To distribute his gold,
Turned all distant and cold,
And the dogs even yelped.
In the end he went off with a dreadful misgiving,
For people had gone
And removed with his living,
And left just “Mister John.”

And he quickly sank deeper and still deeper down,
Till he prized half an apple
Or crust in Whitechapel,
And heaven above was one horrible frown.
His old customers too,
If they happened to meet
Him, crossed over the street
And had business to do;
While he found pity scarce, as he stood at the corner,
Where gas dimly shone,
And that too seemed a scorner
Of poor “Mister John.”

Any night you may see him not far from the door
Of some garish beer tavern,
Which he thinks a cavern
Of gold and delight with a diamond floor.
If he only can kill
For a season his shame
And the thought of the blame,
He will drop lower still.
But when sober at morning he'll think with a shiver
(And newspapers con)
Of one plunge in the river,
To right “Mister John.”

SNUDGE.

Here's a feather for science,
A laurel for lore,
To keep green our reliance
If drooping before;

490

It is not a new fossil, no gas or a stench,
Not a boom in a planet
Or law that began it,
Nor element wrung from its chemical clench.
We have really discovered at length the lost link,
In the Whitechapel sludge;
Only think—
It is Snudge!

With his jaws too obtrusive,
And deep-sunken eyes
Darting glances elusive
As dreading surprise;
With his low furrowed forehead and criminal lip
Dropping down the right corner,
A mien like a mourner,
And curses that fall like the crack of a whip;
With his shaggy black eyebrows that bristle defence,
To impose on the judge
Some pretence—
This is Snudge.

Hardly man and more monkey
And scurvied and scarr'd,
With a furtive and funky
Expression on guard;
Mean and shrivelled and shrunk out of all human shape,
As if dried in an oven—
The dress of a sloven,
A fidgety foot that seems bent to escape;
With a heart that respires its own poisonous breath,
And will harbour a grudge
To the death—
This is Snudge.

Growing down and yet colder
And grayer with time,
With humped nature and shoulder
Crutched easy for crime;
With long arms and crookt fingers that open and snap
On the throat or the plunder—
The man, of course, under—

491

And careless of blood, with a click like a trap;
With a stertorous voice always wheezy, that thinks
All morality fudge,
As he drinks—
This is Snudge.

But among his foul vices
And conduct's black blot,
And the sin that suffices,
There's one brighter spot;
For inside the tenth part of the part of a house,
Where he herds with the steepings
Of jail and the sweepings,
He finds room and sneaking regard for a mouse;
And to this he devotes all his leisure and care
Who for others won't budge,
And won't spare—
This is Snudge.

BLACK BILL.

He is rough, I allow—is Black Bill,
And as tough
As he's rough;
But he drudges away with a will,
Though he never gets victuals enough
For himself but is satisfied still,
For the wife
Who's his life;
Ah, he knows what are toiling and trouble
And seems carried down stream like a bubble,
While he suffers and works for her double,
With the need at his breast like a knife.

He is brave, you admit—is Black Bill,
And as grave
As he's brave,
With more patience and powder than skill,
And no tyrant could make him a slave;
But, silk pet, it is worries that kill;
Late and lone
On the stone

492

Of the street, with no food perhaps tasted,
Stabbed by cold and by summer's heat basted,
He is left day and night and seems wasted
To a shadow, and worn to the bone.

He is near, we confess—is Black Bill,
And as dear
As he's near;
He's a diamond fashioned by ill,
Somewhat rugged, with trial and tear,
Ground to shape in sharp poverty's mill;
By the thorn
Of our scorn
And our floutings so splendidly taken,
To a hero of rock he is shaken,
And the ordeals only awaken
His true wealth, and his troubles adorn.

He is shy, all perceive—is Black Bill,
But as spry
As he's shy,
And determined at least his poor Jill,
If he hungers and aches and goes dry,
In his scrapings shall yet have her fill;
For her sake
He may break
A few laws, for she is his one treasure,
And of all his pursuits the one measure,
While with sadness he meets toil and pleasure—
Whether shovel or cockles and cake.

TINY TIM.

You would surely respect,
Though not of the elect,
One wee morsel turned out by the slums,
With keen ear to detect
At a distance the fifes and the drums,
And quick foot to welcome their strums;

493

He's a thoroughbred sample
And a grimy example
Of the stuff that the gutter can make,
And the oven of trial hard-bake;
You might feel some affection for him,
Tiny Tim,
Though they call him, alas, Satan's limb—
Tiny Tim.

He'd look pretty if clean,
Which he never was seen;
He's a Whitechapel baby, you know,
But he does not act mean
If less ready for words than a blow,
And a lamb with a fleece not of snow;
And if in for a scrimmage,
He would leave you an image
That your mother herself could not tell,
And might empty your pockets as well;
So just spare a small copper for him,
Tiny Tim,
For his landmarks of duty are dim—
Tiny Tim.

But he's not very small,
As a fact not at all,
Such an infant as Hercules might
Have appeared and as tall,
Who would tackle a Bobby at sight
And emerge, too, the best from the fight;
If he stood in his stocking—
But it seems rather shocking,
He was never in one nor a sheet—
He would stand inches over six feet;
It were well to be friendly with him,
Tiny Tim,
And not seem quite so proper and prim—
Tiny Tim.

He can cut carriage wheels
On his head and his heels,
Which is more than a bishop could do

494

Who for him hardly feels,
And indeed for that matter than you,
Though you put all your powder in too;
And while grubby he's gritty,
And can chortle a ditty
That would set honest hair on an end,
Or a wig if to that you descend;
And the decalogue was not for him,
Tiny Tim,
His commandments are hungry and grim—
Tiny Tim.

He is fashioned of fire
And the pavement and mire,
But he has his own honour as much
As the rogues who aspire
To the credit that carries a smutch,
And then frame of religion a crutch;
Though he is a pure savage
Fain to riot and ravage,
Yet he wears not a hypocrite's smirk,
And would scorn his rough labour to shirk;
There is nothing behind hand with him,
Tiny Tim,
Though your codes might find plenty to trim—
Tiny Tim.

He is true to his class,
And not rude to a lass
And he would not strike one for a crown;
And to let a girl pass,
Just for fear she might sully her gown,
In the mud he would plump himself down;
He is fond of the gutter,
And coarse bread with no butter
Seems a good enough meal for his plan,
If he earns it at least like a man;
For sheer hunger is sweet sauce to him,
Tiny Tim,
And your squeamishness only a whim—
Tiny Tim.

495

He has tricks—never mind—
And is deaf, dumb, and blind,
Or whatever is likely to pay,
If he thinks you look kind
And a bobby is not in the way—
But have you never shammed, he might say?
He will whimper and wobble
And deplorably hobble,
Should he scent in your figure a flat,
With a pitiful story all pat;
But perhaps you have brought it on him,
Tiny Tim,
That his hat is in holes with no brim,
Tiny Tim.

Let who may be your pet,
Upon him I will bet
For the staunchness he gets from his breed,
And if famished or wet
Or half perished, all human his creed—
To be loyal to chums in their need;
He is ripe for a rally,
To help Tom or help Sally—
And especially her, if she calls—
Ah, I pity his foe, when he falls;
He's a trump, and there's treasure in him,
Tiny Tim;
You have cream, and he scarcely the skim,
Tiny Tim.

If you happen to trip
Through Whitechapel and slip,
He is certain to give you a chance
Of a generous tip;
If you won't—well, beware of a dance,
As he taught one poor Canon romance;
But he has English leaven
And may still squeeze in Heaven,
When your Pharisee's canting and pride
In the shadow will shiver outside;

496

I suspect there's a corner for him,
Tiny Tim,
When the humbugs go down he will swim,
Tiny Tim.

TOUGH.

Tough is careful
And prayerful
When danger looms out,
And the man in the street may be wanted at last,
With the bluecoats about
And a shadowy past;
Then he brushes his hat and attends to devotions,
While torn in his breast by distracting emotions;
He watches the door,
And a traitorous thrill
If a mouse only patters or squeaks on the floor
Makes his heart for a moment with terror stand still.

Tough in highways
And byways
Is certainly seen,
But prefers the more quiet and sheltery spot
Where the dimness may screen
And observers are not;
Then his head is set off at a different angle,
He feels as a Briton his duty to wrangle
And gossip and drink
With his comrades, and those
Who are ready at all indiscretions to wink
And will not raise the devil they cannot compose.

Tough has idling
And sidling
Approaches and ways,
And he never goes straight if he can but go round;
He is restless, and stays
A brief time in one ground;
If you seek him, don't dream he will keep for your orders
The place he just trod or a mile from its borders;

497

He leads, as I know,
A strange vanishing life,
And he studies the winds and the warnings that blow,
While he plunders at large and with men is at strife.

Tough is meagre
And eager
Of features and form,
With a straw in his mouth which he mumbles for bread,
While he never looks warm
And he hardly seems fed;
Like his own London fog he for ever is shifting,
With no proper will and with circumstance drifting
From trouble to grief,
With no effort to stop,
As an outcast and sworn irrepressible thief,
To the gallows at last and the terrible Drop.

SIM.

Sim is silent and cunning of tread
And a planner
Of plots, with a manner
Of turning his head
Round behind him, as if the police on his track,
As is usual, now were quite close at his back;
He is furtive and foxy
And hates orthodoxy
And sunshine, and lives in the shade
With his tools;
For his trade
Is a burglar's, and not taught in schools.

Sim is sleek and well groomed for the slums,
And when smiling
Displays his beguiling
White teeth to the gums;
Like a dog with resilient lips, that intends
Blood and murder, if weakness unheeding offends;

498

He was first quite respectable
With a delectable
Birth as a butler, till fate
Turned his tune,
And one June
He made off with the jewels and plate.

Sim is surly at seasons, if grist
Or the plunder
Runs short from a blunder,
And free with his fist;
But he's never himself without something on hand,
Like a job in the country judiciously plann'd;
Ah, with danger he rises,
He dreads no surprises;
He's greatest when “cracking up cribs”
Or a life,
With his knife
In some troublesome gentleman's ribs.

Sim has one tender spot for his boy
Whom he hives for
In darkness, and strives for
With perilous joy;
And the child whom he shields, growing fairer with time,
Never dreams his rich blessings are purchased with crime;
While the father keeps toiling
At evil, and soiling
His soul for the beautiful child;
While he spins,
Out of sins,
All the garments so dear and defil'd.

GEORGE.

There is no one exactly like versatile George
For a fight or a feast—
And he minds not the least
Which—if he may be free with his knuckles or gorge;

499

For a meal or a maul,
He is ready with all;
And the lasses
Who scream “Hallelujah,” and strum
On the drum,
And the tambourine, share with his glasses
The honour to warm
His big muscular form.

George is handy and lives like the rest by his wits,
Now he swaggers as groom
And carries a broom,
Or imposes on dupes with deplorable fits;
In the sunshine and shade,
He is busy with trade;
And sells matches
To youngsters who study their pipes,
But want stripes;
And his clothes are uncleaness and patches;
But dig through the dirt,
You may come to a shirt.

George has only one eye which is better than two,
And the bridge of his nose
Has a bashful repose—
The result of a conflict his folly would woo;
Though this always will pay
Pretty well in the day,
With the fiction,
Worked up with appropriate tears
And dark fears,
And served hot as a dreadful affliction;
For each artful gash,
Is worth something in cash.

O a long-headed man and sharp dealer is George,
With his mercantile eye
When to sell or to buy,
And a hand as the hammer that strikes at the forge,
Moving true with its chime
To the purpose and time,
If in tatters;

500

And though none is quicker than he
For a spree,
When he gives like a monarch he scatters;
He's a master in guile,
But not utterly vile.

MOSES THE JEW.

This is Moses the Jew,
And his comrades are few
Though his dollars are many and safely invested,
And he has his own house
But is warmly detested,
For he leaves not behind him a scrap for a mouse;
While he wears funny clothes
And expresses odd oaths,
And goes prying about from dust-bin to dung-heap
With the longest of noses,
And gathers all cheap;
For a sharp eye to picking has miserly Moses.

This is Moses the Jew,
Whom his Miriam knew
While she lived as his wife as the meanest of masters;
For a fresh frock to him
Was the chief of disasters,
And the milk that she purchased was bound to be skim;
Yes, a bonnet a year
He considered too dear,
And a ribbon he thought was a terrible sin;
He was dead against roses,
And counted each pin;
Ah, a cheese-paring would not be wasted with Moses.

This is Moses the Jew,
And a singular view
He presents to the Gentiles to whom he's a stranger;
And he scents a good job
As the ox does the manger,
But whatever his bargains he whines that they rob,

501

And procure him no gain
Beyond losses and pain;
And a dozen old hats on the top of his head
Give the queerest of poses,
He turns stones into bread,
But none ever saw sign of contentment in Moses.

This is Moses the Jew,
With his garments askew
And his beard at an awful preposterous angle;
For a farthing less cost
He will higgle and wrangle,
And (if winner) vow all his labour is lost;
But he softens his tone
Not for lucre alone,
But for widows and orphans to whom he expands
And affection discloses,
As scripture commands;
Though to every one else he is skinflint old Moses.

“THE CORPSE” (JOE).

Here's an ugly phenomenon, friends,
And “The Corpse” is his singular name,
For he gains all his money and ends
By his ghastly cadaverous frame;
Sepulchral his face and his tones
And his front like a death's head is cast,
And he lives simply just in his bones
Like a wreck of the primitive past;
He looks dug like a fossil from graves,
While each breath is a battle
And his limbs seem to rattle
Like the fetters that clank upon slaves.

In the dingiest nooks he is found
With the eyes deeply sunk in the skull,
As if strayed from some burial ground
With his gaze all so vacant and dull.
He is lean as the demon of dearth,
Through his ribs seems to whistle the gust,

502

He appears to arise from the earth
With a crumbling of clods and the dust.
Though he feasts by defying the laws
Yet he never grows fatter,
And his yellow teeth chatter
In his bloodless and terrible jaws.

For he cultivates pallor and knows
How to trade on his thinness and baulk
The most sceptical eye, till he shows
A dead body with lamp-black and chalk.
In the heat of the summer he shakes
And he shivers with merciless cold,
As he mumbles his falsehoods and makes
A grim horror—as fresh from the mould.
If unwatched, as he thinks, his gaunt cheek
Which he pinches and taxes
Into laughter relaxes,
When he pictures the pothouse to seek.

He is faithful, wan Joe, to his views
Of a living and honest and hard,
And the bye-ways of thieving eschews
While he plays his one skeleton card.
At the corners he lurks on the prowl
For the dupe of the innocent face,
With mortality writ on his jowl
And the print of the earth-worm's embrace.
He's consumptive, rheumatic, and queer
With suspicion of cancer,
And all ailments that answer
And at last are converted to beer.

“SILLY” SOL.

“Silly” Sol is half-witted
And wholly distrest,
If he would be acquitted
Of evils confest;
But as bright as a button,
A regular glutton

503

For mischief when chances occur for a spree;
Then the foolish expression is nowhere to see,
And he tucks up his trousers and hitches his belt
In a business-like way—
When some profit is smelt;
And his language is such as allows no delay.

“Silly” Sol is an actor
Who plays for his bread,
But his skull is compacter
Than many a head;
And his hand is as nimble
As your dainty thimble,
Dear Una, when trimming the frock for the ball
And the stitches fly fast and the clock strikes the call;
Though his face may look vacant, he knows the right side
Of the edge for his gain,
Where the good things abide;
And, unless for a copper, he does not complain.

“Silly” Sol has some habits
We can't think correct,
Keen as dogs after rabbits
When dupes least expect;
Then he makes all the running,
With marvellous cunning,
Which an idiot not of the slums could not show
When the weather is right and the proper winds blow;
His deficiences cover his sins as church vaults,
And the bobbies about
Are not hard on his faults;
Though there's daylight within, if it's darkness without.

“Silly” Sol takes the measure
Of neighbours and all
And he knows where is treasure
In stocking or stall,
And the cracked pot with fillings
Of halfpence and shillings;
For a simpleton really he's clever and smart,

504

And if only half baked there is jam in the tart;
For he's mad upon pussies, and makes them his cares;
And it is not a myth,
That he puzzled the smith
With his “horse” shoe which Sol fancied might be a “mare's.”

“GENTLEMAN” FRANK.

I must now introduce you to “Gentleman” Frank
With his gaiters,
Though he was once equal to rank
In extraction and place, my young lord, with your pater's;
He has grimly come down
From the cake of the Classes,
To wallow and drown
In the mud of the Masses;
For he erst knew refinement and lay in the lap
Of life second to none,
If he now lies foredone
And the prey of that Moloch the terrible Tap.

I have infinite pity for “Gentleman” Frank
And his troubles,
Though ages have passed since he sank
To this beggarly lot which remorse only doubles;
He is son of a Peer
And was cradled in satin,
And when maudlin with beer
He will hiccough in Latin;
In his crapulous talk though his glory has set,
In his stertorous haste
With his arm round a waist,
He is not like the others—he cannot forget.

His companions at heart respect “Gentleman” Frank
And his tumble,
Though he has himself but to thank
That he sticks to the street and his station is humble;

505

He had fortune and health
And the best of all chances,
But threw away wealth
And a life like romances;
He kept sinking and sinking as if he must drown,
If arising with pain
Just to sink once again;
But it's over at last for his lot—he keeps down.

He's a gentleman still this poor “Gentleman” Frank
In the gutter,
If future days to him are blank
And his past is a blot and his bread has no butter;
For he carries with him
His nobility's patent,
And though it be dim
It is never quite latent;
That indelible stamp of the breeding and birth
Never dies out in man,
And the delicate plan
Can't be smothered in drink and the dregs of the earth.

“THE SHADOW” (SHADRACH).

Like a mist on a meadow
Is old Shadrach the “Shadow,”
With his presence that darkens the street;
As he passes, the lamp
Takes the sinister stamp
Of the gloom of his funeral feet;
Never sunbeam will play
On his menacing way,
Never child knows the clasp of his hand;
For a horror umbrageous
That is cold and contagious
Scatters round him a blight on the land.

His the blood of the gipsies,
And he carries eclipses
On his ravening path as he goes;

506

For the beautiful beam
And the happiest dream,
When he comes, turn to wanness and woes.
Not a sound do you hear,
Till as sudden as fear
He is felt but unseen at your side,
In his terrible dimness
And that ominous grimness,
Like a shark on a death-bearing tide.

As a bloodhound will follow
Over hill, under hollow,
So he tracks you with pitiless pace,
By some instinct like scent
With unswerving intent,
Though you never may once see his face—
Like the ghost of a knave,
And as still as the grave;
Till, as time with your journey moves on,
You (who toil for his living),
With a sickly misgiving
Wake to find all your treasures are gone.

He seems only the etching
Or outlines of a sketching
That might possibly grow to a man,
If the Maker filled in
What he chose to begin
And was not quite ashamed of his plan.
But the “Shadow” is not
Without one kindly spot,
And it's not all a bramble the stem;
For, if hardly he harrows
Men, he loves London sparrows,
And shares often his dinner with them.

THE “WORM” (SAUL).

Long and lanky
Is clever and keen-witted Saul,
And his Sankey

507

Seems ever so glib at his call;
He can sing,
He does ring
All the changes on hymns and the songs
That are food to his Whitechapel throngs,
To the airs which they borrow from tavern and stage,
When with pious contortions he chooses to squirm
With one page from the boards—from the pulpit one stage,
Like a worm.

Even Ethel,
The pride of the coster and flower
Of smug Bethel,
Admits he has wonderful power;
He will raise
With his praise
Such a tempest of soul-searching sound,
That the Devil himself is quite drown'd.
Saul improves the occasion, while warning the hearts,
Just to empty the pockets of friends who are next,
While he wriggles with unction and sticks to his arts
And his text.

Like a lion
He roars at the folly and sin,
And in Sion
His voice thunders bolts against gin;
He can preach,
He does teach
The most beautiful sentiments pat,
And then weeping goes round with his hat;
O he writhes, O he wrestles in prayer with vice
For the weal of the flock he religiously shears,
And surrenders his all while his dupes pay the price
Of his tears.

At revivals
His twistings and turns are the best,
New arrivals
By such are most deeply imprest;

508

All in black,
With no lack
Of good principles and a smart phrase,
He can make the fresh tinder soon blaze.
Neatly shaven, long-jawed and close-cropt, with his showers
Of repentance he looks a church rock and as firm;
But, if false to the core yet he doats upon flowers,
Though the “Worm.”

THE BULLY (BOB).

Bully Bob
Likes a job
For his biceps and muscle,
He makes light
Of the bloodiest tumble and tussle,
And can fight;
Heavy-jowled and high-cheekboned and bearded and black,
Never washed, never sober, he treads but one track
And allows but one cheer
In the pothouse and beer;
He thinks, in for a penny is in for a pound;
If the reason is false, that alone is his ground.

Bully Bob
Hates a snob,
And he straight gives him pepper
Left and right,
For he loathes a mere humbug high-stepper—
He can fight;
With square shoulders, deep chest and his ponderous arms
And a truculent look, he distinctly alarms
Any casual friend
Who opposes his end;
He says, hammer and tongs are far better than play;
That's a funny opinion, but then it's his way.

509

Bully Bob
Does not rob
With the usual sneaking,
He has might
And knows nothing is lost by plain speaking,
And can fight;
So he does not go sidling with serpentine stealth,
But demands and quite boldly to drink your good health;
And he will not abuse
One who likes to refuse
A frank offer, nor act as a commoner clown;
He will take what he wants, having first knocked you down.

Bully Bob
Loves a mob,
For displaying his science;
He is right,
As he feels in his hands such reliance
And can fight;
But for cripples he often exhibits the strength
Of his arms, and wrong doers who measure their length
Do not need hitting twice,
As they find once suffice;
He is the champion of cripples, with all his fierce air,
And you may not admire him—but that's your affair.

THE BUTCHER (BEN).

Butcher Ben is a killer
Of dogs and of cats,
And a hardened fulfiller
Of death to all rats;
With a mongrel behind and a pipe in his lips
And a hand that holds fast on the sharpest of whips,
He strolls blear-eyed and blinking
And slouching and slinking
With the shiftiest glance and irresolute tread,
And a moleskin cap stuck on the back of his head;

510

As if he can't determine,
If you are not vermin.

Butcher Ben loves the slaughter
Of innocent beasts,
Though he has one dear daughter
He fondles and feasts;
And if red from the torture of helpless dumb things,
He'd not ruffle her hair nor her white apron strings;
But he goes shy and shambling
On murderous rambling,
From one court to another in quest of the food
And the sport that is bliss to his barbarous mood;
He is cunning and cruel,
And to him pain is gruel.

Butcher Ben has indwelling
An infinite lust
Of destruction, rebelling
At kindness and trust;
He thinks mercy is weakness and gentleness fear,
And to him any sight that looks dreadful is dear;
And his wife undetected
Was soon vivisected,
Though devotion to him was her singular fault,
With the scalpel of savage abuse and assault;
While his dog won the petting,
She had the forgetting.

Butcher Ben has a fashion
We do not admire,
For mere blood wakes a passion
In him none desire;
And the tiger in all at the bottom seethes up
In his nature, as dregs from an unwashen cup;
Though he scuttles and scrambles
To all the near shambles,
Yet he keeps a warm corner deep in his cold heart
For the daughter he spoils with a princess's part;
“Rover” first must be reckon'd,
But she is a good second.

511

THE “DEMON” (DAN).

Though they call him the “Demon” he's mildest of men,
With a dash
Of politeness that sets off the wen
Of the gutter spread out like a horrible splash
From his head to his heel,
On his watch-chain of steel;
And his eyes are the softest cerulean blue
That betray not a clue
Of his grimy possessions
Though he lives under decent society's ban
Among grievous transgressions—
Yet he's “Demon” Dan.

But this is the quintessence of Whitechapel wit
And the slums,
To affix a wrong name that will sit
Like false beacons, and style clever fingers all thumbs;
For the “Demon” is mild
As an innocent child,
And peeps forth from his gloom and in wondering love,
As the azure above
From the clouds in their courses;
Just as if a strayed infant, with never a plan,
Gazed out on hell forces—
Yet he's “Demon” Dan.

How he reached that Inferno I truly can't guess—
It is odd;
For beneath his dark Whitechapel dress,
There's a heart that believes in a heaven and God—
There's the quivering spire
Of an upmounting fire—
There's the beating of wings of an infinite trust,
In a desert of dust;
Though he knows not a letter
And subsides with strange pals in a prisoning span
And goes clanking a fetter—
He's not “Demon” Dan.

512

And he is fully as honest as you with his toil,
I can vow;
For that dim disrespectable soil
Has no home in his breast, if it shadows his brow;
For the shavings off spars
And the ends of cigars,
With the tags and the rags and the refuse of bones
He collects from the stones;
Though he shuns soap and water
And once heaved half a brick at mad “Hallelu” Ann,
While he keeps the rogue's quarter—
He's not “Demon” Dan.

“SUDDEN DEATH” SAM.

“Sudden Death” is a horrible sham
With his bulldog a brindle,
Though his proper name really is Sam—
He's a regular swindle;
For his conduct is certainly queer,
And his diet tobacco and beer
With a casual herring;
He has each heavy fault of his class,
And sometimes is hitched on to an ass—
Like himself sadly erring.
Imposition for him is his breath,
And most oddly he lives by his death.

He would gammon the very elect—
Even you, neighbour, and I
Might be cheated by him, I suspect,
And his mode operandi;
It does give me a positive pain
To reveal it, but let me explain—
It's as plain as a pimple;
He observes with a curious glance
All the wayfarers yielding a chance,
Looking out for the simple;
When one passes to suit his desire,
He proceeds at his ease to expire.

513

For he has a fair portion of wits
And at acting is clever,
And no humbug can beat him at fits—
Though a few may endeavour;
In a moment, to some one's distress,
He goes off like a railway express
On his back foaming, kicking,
And subsides with a gurgle and gasp,
Should he fancy your purse will unclasp
At his masterly tricking;
If he hears then the magical sound
Of a coin, he as quickly comes round.

'Tis a shocking performance to do
You may cry, my dear madam;
He's a hypocrite, but what are you
With that cunning old Adam?
He is kind to his bulldog and ass,
Though he likes (as your husband) his glass,
But betrays none with kisses;
He deceives, just because it s his trade,
And prefers (as you often) the shade—
What of your stolen blisses?
Imposition to him is his bread,
And he only lives when he is dead.

“SATAN” HARRY.

“Satan” strolls gaily drest in the Whitechapel style
And wears gloves and a flower and elegant smile,
With his oily insidious manner,
And red neck-kerchief fragrant of grease and of guile
That goes flaming before like a banner.
He is soapy and sly
With a glass in his eye,
Weaving webs for the fly
As a spider that's spinning its thread,
Always eager to marry
And devour the poor bride for the dead—
But his true name is Harry.

514

Honey-wiled, with cheap jewels and sugar-plum bait,
Steeped in fraud to his finger tips well he can wait
Till the victim is charmed, if he chooses,
While the net of entanglements closes in strait
With the chance which the petulant loses;
He is affable, smart
In the devil's best part,
And despises all heart;
And he lives (as his lord) many lives
A wild rake and a rover,
And has wedded (they say) twenty wives
And still sighs for fresh clover.

He is craftily cruel and cloyingly sweet
On the quest for stray maidens he watches to meet,
But is carefully damnably sober,
Wide awake for his prey till she falls at his feet
As the withered leaves fall in October;
He is ready of speech,
And can beg or beseech
With new stories for each,
And besmears them before he eats up
With his slimy addresses,
Though with venom dropt in the gold cup,
Like a serpent's caresses.

While so heartless he still has a weakness for “kids,”
Though his hands grip their spoil like the closed coffin lids,
And in tender directions are chary,
But to Mary and Jack (if no pleasure forbids)
He is kind and loves both—but most Mary;
He gives children his pence,
And for all his defence
Is no idle pretence;
And for them he forsakes his foul trail
Just to fetch and to carry,
He will buy pretty toys if they ail—
Yet they call him “Old Harry.”

515

PODGE.

Here is all alone Podge
With his singular habits
And face like a rabbit's,
Determined to dodge
Every creature that comes in his singular way—
How he lives, where he sojourns, no person can say;
And it does not much matter
To you or to me,
Only neighbours will chatter
And no two agree;
But he makes no companions, and still as a stone
Through the day and at night he endures all alone—
All alone,
All alone.

Podge abides in a mist,
He is careful of clothing
And seems to have nothing
To do but exist;
He is very particular too with his breath,
Never speaks to a soul, and goes silent as death
Up and down court and alley
Seeking what he can't find;
Even Sue and gay Sally
Are not to his mind;
He's been seen to pick quarrels with dogs for a bone,
But he did it believing he was all alone—
All alone,
All alone.

Podge is never too slow,
And the sternest disaster
Will not drive him faster,
If hurricanes blow;
At the same even pace on the same dreary round,
Wet or dry, hot or cold, he seems fatally bound;
And the same dull expression
Appears on his face,
But it yields no confession
The wisest can trace;

516

If he talked it would be with the same level tone,
In the presence of hell, for he lives all alone—
All alone,
All alone.

Do not reckon poor Podge
Will explain if he passes
For beer in full glasses,
Where he loves to lodge;
No policeman can help you, and no one has seen
Him asleep or half tipsy when others have been;
He allows not a pleasure
Nor symptom of pain—
Not a moment of leisure,
Nor does he complain;
In a world by himself, no geography's zone,
Deaf and dumb, blind and dead, he resides all alone—
All alone,
All alone.

BREEZY BESS.

If things ever arrive at a stress
Or a tangle,
I'll lay all my money on Bess,
Not to dangle—
To dangle;
For while others are dreaming and dawdling about
At the lucky gold portals
Once opened to mortals,
In a trice she's within, while they dally without;
For she tells the right moment
When it's yes and not no meant,
As her breezy young form in its bliss
Blows a kiss—
Blows a kiss.

If you speak of a matter like dress
Or a bonnet,
There is no one like practical Bess
Dead upon it—
Upon it;

517

If you're dealing with feathers or ribands or some
Such mysterious question,
I'll back her suggestion
Against all, though the wisest of milliners come;
If you go into flounces
Or trimmings, she pounces
Just on the solution desired,
As inspired—
As inspired.

If you drop by mistake in a mess
Or a scandal,
There is no one as nimble as Bess
With her candle—
Her candle,
To give light and relief at the one proper time;
If you fall in a puddle
Or other folks' muddle,
At a simple extraction she's downright sublime;
She's a kitten—who catches
Her, knows what are scratches,
But she purrs quite as sweetly when teased
As when pleased—
As when pleased.

If you treat her (it's needless to press)
To the candy
She loves, not ungrateful is Bess
And so handy—
So handy;
If consulting her tastes you propose her the choice
She is partial to coffee,
And reckons that toffee
Is wholesome and excellent food for the voice.
She has thoughts about marriage
And driving a carriage,
When her coster endows the bright lass
With his ass—
With his ass.

518

“DOLL.”

O we all are enamoured of dear little “Doll”
With her merry blue eyes and long lashes,
And flashes
Of humour, if sometimes she screams like poor Poll,
And is fond of a babel
And upsets a table
Or temper, and does not think twice—
But she's nice;
Though you never saw tantrums like hers out of fable
And not without vice;
She is always unstable,
But then she's a woman and never was ice.

Tiny “Doll” will go souse into any mad mess,
For she lives in a racket and flutter
And utter
Contempt of such trifles as customs and dress;
And her course is not humble
Like sinners, who stumble
And bother with penitent pains;
And her stains
Come more kindly to her, from too many a tumble
In pestilent drains,
At which good people grumble
And leave—till the next dirty scandal complains.

Daring “Doll” is a brick in the moment of need,
She is Irish and fond of a shindy
And windy
Herself, in her ways and her Donnibrooke creed;
In the stormiest weather,
And light as a feather
She flies when the stones are about—
She steps out,
And her tongue does away with propriety's tether;
She despises a clout
Of rude stick or rough leather,
Like a petrel she rides on the hubbub and rout.

519

Tricksy “Doll” is a darling, a great human love
On her pale pretty cheeks paints its flushes
And rushes
To eye and red lip, aud enwraps like a glove—
Yes, as warmly and tightly,
Whether wrongly or rightly,
When you once touch her sensitive part—
She has heart;
And that love in her sordid career burns more brightly
Than candles of art,
Like a star that beams nightly
On litter and leavings of mud and of mart.

PRETTY PRISS.

Pretty Priss, pretty Priss
Takes a coin or a kiss
Like a lady and thanks you as well,
She is good for a fight,
She is good for a night
And would dance like an angel to hell.
She may have naughty ends,
But she never pretends
To be better than others or worse;
She will give you fair play
Or the time of the day,
If desired, and wont stick at a curse.

Pretty Priss, pretty Priss
Deems a music-hall bliss,
And for such her spare coppers she hoards;
In her ribbons and tags
And unspeakable rags,
She would like to perform on the boards.
Though she stumbles and strays,
Still when sober she prays,
With devotion becoming to her;
And the God who's our kin
Deeper looks than the skin,
And finds pardon for pussies who err.

520

Pretty Priss, pretty Priss,
Takes no weather amiss,
And all burdens upon her sit light;
Be it famine or frost,
Yet she counts not the cost,
And is certain the end will come right.
They may praise her or scold,
Give a shilling or gold,
Or presume on their riches to strike;
For the pleasure or pain
She is ready again,
And receives every windfall alike.

Pretty Priss, pretty Priss,
Do not reckon on this—
That your spirits will never run down,
And your beauty won't fade
In the gaslight and shade,
If you now are so bonny and brown.
But I feel very sure,
No misfortune will cure
You of follies like those of the past;
That your life will be short,
Kisses, ribbons and sport,
You'll be pretty and bold to the last.

QUEEN “BABY.”

My dear duchess, it may be
You have not seen “Baby,”
The beauty who reigns in the slums;
Though her hair is her crown,
And all tattered her gown,
And she still goes on sucking her thumbs.
She is tidy and trim for a Whitechapel child,
And her tangles at least are her own;
She has stains on her hands, but are you not defil'd,
If the rottenness yet is not known?

521

From the garbage of gutter life bursts no white blossom,
Though her blemish lies most on the face;
What is soil on the body to soil in the bosom,
Covered over with jewels and lace?

Keep your feathers, fine gaby,
But I prefer “Baby,”
With all her rough manners and rags;
She has temper no doubt,
And it often flames out,
But in sympathy she never lags.
O she swears like a trooper, I cannot deny,
And her speech is not drawing-room slang;
But the danger you scuttle from she would defy
And say straight to the devil, go hang.
But yet somehow the oaths on those ripe lips of cherry
Have a kind of propriety tone,
As the thorns that protect the wild red winter berry
As it shivers, cold, naked, alone.

And if rod to belay be
In pickle for “Baby,”
She stands undefended, unarmed,
Save by shrewd native wit
And a tongue that can hit,
With a heart that is never alarmed.
For the gold is not all on that tumbled fair thatch
Streaming over the earnest gray eyes,
Hardly hiding the scar of the eloquent scratch,
And deep down in her nature it lies.
Do not ask me too closely the source of her living,
Remember her home is the slums,
She is true to her light, she is frank and forgiving
In that air that befogs and benumbs.

Truths as simple as A B
Are unknown to “Baby,”
Yet she wants no crutches or nurse,
And secure as a Guelf
Governs all but herself,
Without laws or police or a purse.

522

Ready tact, the right word, an invincible will,
And a knowledge of neighbours' weak points,
Give a power and throne that no monarch could fill
Whom a grand coronation anoints.
For her spirit admits of no rival, and truckles
To no force—from no tyranny swerves,
While at times and indeed she can use her brown knuckles
In a fashion to scare timid nerves.

BIG BELL.

They are rather afraid of Big Bell
And her bouncing,
Though the reason is simple and easy to tell—
She has given to many a bully a trouncing;
And she lays it on thick
With a broomstick or brick,
Or whatever comes handy—
See her last victim, “Sandy!”
She is fond of the glass and a jolly good fling
In the Whitechapel gutter,
With her hiccough and stutter—
That voluminous wench, that voluptuous Thing!

She is blowsy of features—Big Bell.
They look scarlet
When she lurches along like a ship in a swell,
Bearing down and full sail on some cowardly varlet,
With her lolloping tread
That would waken the dead,
From the garish gas hot-house
Of the gin-reeking pot-house;
Ah, I pity the craven who crosses her then,
On the road or her doorsill;
He is just a mere morsel,
For that ogress who mocks at a dozen such men.

523

Never bonnet was worn by Big Bell,
She despises
Your tame fashions, and rolls on unhatted to hell,
In her own rough-and-tumble undress that surprises;
Her great shoes do not pair,
And around her black hair
With its natural glossing
And tempestuous tossing
She has sometimes been known to disport a red shawl;
And indeed her bare bosom
Often flares a flame blossom,
Unconcealed, and would shock Mistress Grundy and all.

But a tender heart still has Big Bell,
And she gathers
In its compass lost dogs and stray cats, and as well
Every child she finds crying she mothers and fathers;
For the dirtiest brat
With its head like a mat,
She would spend and quite willing,
Her last loaf or last shilling.
But whenever she tramps on the warpath of drink
Glooming darker than Hindoos,
Neighbours shut up their windows
While they fasten their doors and away from her slink.

LUCE.

Jolly Luce, better known as the mother of Siss,
Is delightfully human,
The big apple-woman
Whose fruit in the season you hardly could miss;
She has many a basket
And one roomy stall,
Though her figure may mask it
If ever you call.
Her umbrageous proportions are landmarks to see
And to fashion your course,
Or a friendly resource—
But, when signals mark danger, a foreland to flee.

524

There's a husband about, a promoter of fears
And rude temper and tattle,
With bloodshed and battle,
Who seems always “wanted ”and seldom appears.
He has troublesome yearnings
For oysters and stout,
And is dead on her earnings
When Law lets him out.
But big Luce has a method and arm of her own
And is awkward to face,
Like a bear's rough embrace,
Till the devil is laid and the tempest is blown.

O big Luce has a spirit as large as her frame
And a proper affection,
With kind recollection
Of others if down on their luck or in shame.
Are you short of a shilling,
Or faint for a feed?
She is never unwilling,
To lend what you need.
If a neighbour is sick or a child seeks a rest,
She is foremost of all
And at ev'ry one's call,
And would gather the world on her infinite breast.

But the “apple” (she says) “of her eye” is bright Siss—
Yes, for her she keeps scraping
And screwing, and shaping
Her efforts, that she may have plenty and bliss.
So big Luce goes on trudging
From morning to night,
And except in her drudging
Scarce finds a delight.
And the seasons go out and the seasons come in
With their changes and chimes,
And are just working times
Only ending again the same round to begin.

525

“BUB.”

She is lissom and sprightly
And eager for chat,
While she hops about lightly
And never grows fat;
She's the age of most people, but has not a name
That a parent would hit
On or parson deem fit,
Yet it was not her choosing and she's not to blame;
As a butterfly often springs out of a grub,
So she flashes about in the gaudiest dresses
With scintillant tresses,
Though nicknamed mere “Bub.”

In all winds and all weathers
She fancies a fling,
And you see her fine feathers
In every good thing;
At a feast or a funeral, quarrel or spree,
In the daytime or night
She takes equal delight,
And with each as it comes is prepared to agree;
She can carry her bottle and bear a rough rub
With the stoutest, and likes at your cost to get mellow,
Though her hair is yellow
And she is plain “Bub.”

But she's dismal when sober
And haunted with fears,
And then looks like October
In red leaves and tears;
But a pull at the poison will soon set her up
From her querulous heap,
And the laughters will leap
Once again as she flies to the kiss or the cup;
Then her mirth is too noisy for neighbours to snub,
And she reads with an infinite zest the dark riddle
Of life to the fiddle,
Dear bibulous “Bub.”

526

She is leggy and limber
And fond of a dance,
As if cork were her timber
And days all romance;
But she keeps a warm corner at heart for the Jews
With their noses and bags
And researches in rags,
And for one half a week she held temperate views;
Yes, for him like the cynic she lived in a tub,
Till at least in an hour of presumptuous boasting
She thought just of toasting
Her goodness—poor “Bub.”

“OLE GRAN.”

This is funny “Ole Gran,'
A quaint Whitechapel figure
Composed on a plan
Of old rags and all rigour;
And mouldy with weather and lichened bytime
To a singular shape,
And half woman, half ape,
With suspicions of moss and a coating of grime;
She is threadbare and thrifty,
And numbers twice fifty
Long years and can still pick her oakum and thieve—
So they say, and I think I can almost believe.

Here's a health to “Ole Gran,”
And a fig for aspersions!
She gets what she can,
And will have her diversions.
If she holds the meum and teum are one,
And the busy who toil
Are preserved for her spoil,
She does only what titled defrauders have done;
And society brought her
To this, and mistaught her—
It pushed her along this deplorable way;
And yet now we would grumble, at what we must pay.

527

I wont bother “Ole Gran”
With proprieties' wishes,
If into her pan
She pops my loaves and fishes;
She is welcome to take of my margin and live
On my leavings and pence,
And to break through the fence
Of my sound legal rights—and I freely forgive;
Her dim doddering paces
And crusty grimaces,
Appeal to my love more than satin and silk,
And if I enjoy cream, she may have the skim milk.

Others threaten “Ole Gran”
With policemen and such,
And your drawing-room man
Would recoil from her touch;
Prigs allege she's unpleasant to nose and to eye;
And is evil in look,
Yet she fills up a nook
In my heart, and the bearings of earth and the sky;
As the blight on a meadow,
She fits in the shadow
Of life, and has somewhere her own proper place,
Which is part of one whole, and as needful as grace.

“AUNTIE.”

Little hunchy-backed “Auntie,” incongruous elf,
Has had never a foe in the world but herself,
And the terrible drink
With its adamant link;
See, she stands not four feet in her highest-heeled boots
By some very long inches,
And bad habit pinches
Her smaller, and stops any chance of new shoots
Or a healthier growing;
For all the fresh life,
That would feed her, goes flowing
In liquor and strife.

528

But yet “Auntie” is wiser than all the wise men,
And she carries a bottle of ink and a pen
And can scribble (when paid)
For a man or a maid
The most marvellous letters of love without flaw;
O her hand seems to caper
And flourish on paper,
Till ignorant people regard her with awe;
And her moderate charges
Surprise, though a verse
Or two added enlarges
Her claims on your purse.

Wretched wee wrinkled “Auntie” is shaped like a bird
With its plumage all ruffled and temper all stirr'd,
With a long hooky beak,
And looks washy and weak;
While her spirit and body refuse to be friends,
For the one is too active
And one too contractive,
And each goes about the most opposite ends;
So I think her big nature
Is in the wrong house,
That would suit with its stature
A midge or a mouse.

Dowdy draggle-tailed “Auntie” has one funny craze,
An aversion for children—she shrinks from their gaze,
And would fly any street
To escape their young feet;
For when first to Whitechapel she drifted, I know,
With her withered and stunted
Poor frame, she was hunted
By urchins with mud and with many a blow.
And those terors yet tarry
Within her scared eyes,
And their brand she will carry
To death's dark Assize.

529

MOTHER MOG.

Mother Mog has a kindly
Compassionate brow,
If she moves about blindly
With suffering now;
Though she never was married,
Her children are scores,
On her broad bosom carried—
And babes she adores.
Ah, the young and uncared for and helpless for miles,
Ev'ry cat, ev'ry dog,
Know the light of the blessing and warmth of the smiles
Of the good Mother Mog.

Mother Mog was thrown early
Adrift on the street,
In the fierce hurly-burly
And fever of feet;
But the sin and the sorrow
Oped fountains of love
In her heart, and a morrow
Of mercy above.
She possessed not one gift but a beautiful soul,
And that pestilent Bog
Which had sucked down whole worlds in its slimy control
Could not snare Mother Mog.

Mother Mog has the pureness
Which comes from the heart,
And that gives her secureness
When iron bolts part;
For her innocent pity
Looks out on the pall
Of that terrible City,
And suffers for all.
But still nothing can stay her or stumble her path,
Neither lion nor log;
And she walks yet unsinged in the furnace of wrath—
Simple sweet Mother Mog.

530

Mother Mog has no learning,
To teach her the truth,
But her mind feels the yearning
Of infinite youth;
And though more than twice thirty
Her nature is green,
And if awkward and dirty
She moves like a Queen.
She's a copy of Christ, and would die for the sin,
That we flatter or flog;
And I here raise my hat to the angel, within
The poor plain Mother Mog.

FAN.

Frisky Fan
Has a wonderful eye for a man,
And for brothers;
It's odd how they multiply fast,
And the dearest of course is the freshest and last;
Unlike others,
She's never content with one string
And would take all the sex cuddled under her wing,
She is fair and fifteen although fifty in vice
And in folly,
A born flirt to tempt and entice
And alone has been seen to flirt hard with a “dolly.”

Naughty Fan
Has fled long from Society's ban,
Though still tender
Of age, and is seasoned in sin
From example and gentlemen's treating and gin—
You can't mend her;
Her manners are shocking, and tracts
Only send her off swearing to uglier acts.
Still her face keeps its infantine look, though her heart
Is as blighted
As harridans' hawked on the mart—
To the devil for years she has truly been plighted.

531

Dressy Fan
Thinks costume is the only good plan,
For young ladies;
She'd sell her own soul with delight
For a pretty pink frock, if she supped the same night
Down in Hades;
She'd worry a hat from a Jew,
And no second hand slop but smart-ribboned and new.
Yes, her taste is not bad, and your elegant dames
With their varnish
Who call her the vilest of names,
Yet look vulgar to her with so little to garnish.

Easy Fan
Never troubled, since once she began,
About morals;
To her they are not for the poor,
And seem just like the paint on a nobleman's door,
Or the corals
That hang around duchesses' throats,
Who know nothing (in public) of rakes and wild oats.
But then she with her weakness would not hurt a fly,
Nor give sections
Of life to each claim, all awry;
She is perfect at least in her mere imperfections.

OUR SAL.

She is little but talking and tatters
And oaths,
In her clothes
That for her are too big and strange matters,
And tied up with string
Just to keep out the weather,
Though scarcely they cling
In their fragments together;
Ah, a funny old gal
But at bottom a brick
Is our Sal,
If she seems such a cussed queer stick.

532

Through the courts of the Gentiles and Jewry
She tears,
When she swears
And breaks out in her petticoat fury;
She's grayhaired and grim,
Draggle-tailed and a Tartar—
God have mercy on him
She selected as a martyr!
But, if wanted a pal
In a moment of need,
Try our Sal
Whom I warrant a stunner indeed.

You may sometimes see her at a crossing
In mire,
All on fire
For your alms that she seeks without glossing;
Thin, threadbare and gaunt,
With her stertorous stammer,
She parries a taunt
By an oath like a hammer;
She must live, and she shall
Though by begging and luck,
For our Sal
Has a place upon earth like the muck.

The policemen are shy of her bitter
Plain speech,
And they each
Find a quieter neighbourhood fitter;
But trust me, her lips
Can frame womanly blessings,
And souls in eclipse
Often feel her caressings.
Valeat quantum val.!
But beneath the top layer
Of our Sal,
You may dig down to something like prayer.

533

“WICKED BET.”

Don't you know “Wicked Bet”
With her forehead of brass,
And her sturdy
Loud wordy
Delight in a “wet”
And a bibulous yarn to each sociable glass,
At the neighbouring tavern,
With a mouth like a cavern?
And with red rheumy eyes
Now in rollicking leer,
Now in savage surprise,
Blinking over her beer.

You must mark “Wicked Bet”
And the shadow we shun
Past enduring,
Procuring
Sweet souls that are let,
And her black coruscations of crapulous fun;
Ah, I think Adam's apple
Came back to Whitechapel;
While she by her art,
With a living to make,
Plays the infamous part
Of the damnable Snake.

Just observe “Wicked Bet”
As she watches her prey,
Like a spider
Beside her
Pretending to pet;
If girls fall in her clutches, all hopeless are they;
For she carefully angles
And traps them in tangles
Of promises fair,
If they fidget or pout;
Till they find in despair
That they cannot get out.

534

Though she is “Wicked Bet,”
A noctivagous curse,
With her easy
And greasy
Devices to get
Her serpent constrictions round person and purse;
If she certainly trundles
Her feminine bundles,
Soul, body, to hell;
Yet she offers good pay,
She goes with them as well
And makes pleasant the way.

SUE.

I like Sue,
And her blue
Pretty eyes with their passion;
And the shape of her shoulders and waist's finer fashion
To which none could object,
Which you would not expect
In a Whitechapel gal under tatters and tears,
With the slough of the slums
And the stainings and crumbs
Which as witness to recent debauches she bears;
Yet she's natty,
And chatty.

I like Sue,
She is true
And as tender as darlings
Who herd like the pigs and must scavenge like starlings
For a meal, as they may,
From the dustbin or way
That is footed by poor men and wheeled o'er by rich;
Ah, she has not your pride,
And the dirt is outside
And not carved into idols and throned on a niche;
She's, if vicious,
Delicious.

535

I like Sue,
And the hue
Of her shaded brown tresses,
And her wondering looks and her baby addresses;
While the colour lies fresh
On her healthy young flesh,
All in spite of the spots which would quickly rub off,
As the bloom makes its nest
In the rose's red breast;
It wears better than rouge, lady, though you may scoff;
She is ruddy,
If muddy.

I like Sue,
For the clue
That she gives to old fountains,
First principles sure and sublime as the mountains;
O she carries me back
To the earliest track,
And behind this pale mumming and falsehood and dearth;
While she breathes of the soil
And the sweetness of toil,
And the hand of the Maker and mothering Earth;
Yes, at twenty
That's plenty.

JOAN.

Joan is yellow
And mellow,
As ripe as a nut,
Though a lazy great drab and a deuce of a slut;
Far too fond of her snooze
And unspeakable bed,
And addicted to booze
When her children want bread.
From that lavish rotundity
Hardly her choice,
Out of awful profundity
Comes a male voice.

536

Joan's a pattern
True slattern
Of rude slummy type,
For she loves a cigar and enjoys her black pipe;
Like a tigress she grips
With her passion her man,
And her sensual lips
Have the fleshliest plan;
And at snuff she's no laggard
Nor slow at a song—
She prefers “Irish blackguard,”
And both of them strong.

She's a model
To waddle,
Her margin is such,
Though she likes the gin-bottle to serve as a crutch;
And her wild tawny hair,
Tumbles over her face;
And you well might despair,
In her python's embrace;
If you came to collision
Or warmer caress,
You would need a decision
That few men possess.

Joan's no stranger
To danger,
She laughs it to scorn,
And the bully to frighten her has not been born;
With her muscular arms
And her terrible tramp,
When excited, her charms
Have an Amazon stamp;
Then its idle your wooing
And certain your fall,
She must burst and boohooing
Makes ninepins of all.

537

OLD MEG.

Many call her the “Granny”
And think her a witch
In their hearts, and uncanny
And cold is her scritch—
When she's crossed or the liquor has fuddled her brains,
And her toothless gums tattle
And bones seem to rattle
From dolorous rust like a skeleton's chains;
She is hungry and haggard, Old Meg,
And she lurches
With doubtful researches,
On one wooden leg.

You may see her on crutches
That poke into drains,
And explore rabbit hutches
Regardless of stains;
Ah, she rakes up the dung heap and scatters the dust,
Or the refuse of brewers
And garbage of sewers,
For the maggoty offal and filthiest crust;
For she cannot be dainty, Old Meg,
And goes lonely
Through life, and is only
A scavenger's peg.

Yes, a peg for the hanging
Of rubbish and tins,
And old bottles whose clanging
Performs on her shins;
Over each bushy eyebrow lies beetling a mole;
She is tenth in one attic,
And drags her rheumatic
Pinched frame every night to that leperous hole;
She appears badly cobbled (Old Meg)
Of odd fractions,
And all her strange actions
Agree but to beg.

538

And I doubt if a sinner
Was ever more sunk
And as mouldy or thinner
Or happier drunk;
What she eats must be little, she never buys bread,
And is pleased just with pickings
Of pavements and lickings
Of bones from which sensible dogs turn their head;
She's a desperate drinker, Old Meg,
For her fancies
And highest romances
Transcend not the keg.

MAD JANE.

I've a sneaking respect for “Mad Jane”
And her mission,
Which veers like a vane
With the chapel's last fission;
For, though filthy, untrue,
And unchaste as the rest,
With light fingers for all that may chance to accrue,
There's a spark of religion down in her dim breast;
Ah, she knows she's a desperate sinner—
Mere dregs,
But her legs
Take her faster to sermons than dinner.

She appears out of place, poor “Mad Jane,”
In that quarter
Of blackness and bane,
Like a fish out of water;
Her quavering voice
Can fling curses about,
And she does, but she vastly prefers to rejoice
With the hymn-book she never was once seen without;
And it is not all humbug and shamming,
I know,
If her flow
Of strong words takes so kindly to damning.

539

There's a burden that rests on “Mad Jane,”
And a story
Like a long crooked lane,
To help people to glory;
And when tipsy she yet
Is inspired by that zeal,
And that passion consuming she cannot forget
With its terrible calling she will not conceal;
With her menacing arm like a prophet
She raves,
Till the graves
Might awaken—and souls down in Tophet.

She is grey and dishevelled, “Mad Jane,”
And so bony;
Her spirits can't wane,
With the cup as her crony;
When she stutters and storms
“Hallelujah” I join,
And I think of repentance and turn to reforms,
While my hands in my coat grope about for a coin;
Though next minute the preacher may stumble
And flop,
From a drop
Just too much, yet I go away humble.

FLO.

In her face she is merry
And brown as a berry,
But not
In the heart that is withered and worn
And so fretted away, by the thorn
And the spot
Of the infamous lot
That has never a morn;
If at times in the drought of her trials and troubles,
Like a spring in the desert her young spirit bubbles;
Though the fault of poor Flo
Is, she cannot say no.

540

I can see rarest beauty
In striving at duty,
Through rags
Of the Pariah outcast and lone
With a pillow of straw or a stone,
And in hags
Wrecked on pitiless crags
And the law's cruel throne;
And I mark in this plaything of wind and the weather,
Mere weakness (not wickedness) tost as a feather;
The mischief in Flo
Is above, not below.

She is fickle and fragile,
A gipsy, and agile
Of limb
Like a graceful and sinuous pard;
Though her forehead shows years have been hard
And no whim,
But as breakers to swim
In and leaving her scarr'd;
While her coral lips often turn weary and white,
And are puckered with care and the world's coward spite;
But a hero is Flo,
Whatsoever blasts blow.

She has toppled and tumbled,
And staggered and stumbled
In strife,
And then risen up laughing through tears
In the shadow of death and its fears,
When its knife
Has been stabbing her life
And her thoughts have been spears;
But in teeth of her torturing needs for the day,
From the darkness and doom comes redeeming a ray,
And on down-trodden Flo
Filters some of its glow.

541

MAUD.

Dainty delicate Maud
Would step over a puddle,
And hates like sheer poison a bother or muddle,
Though she's (I confess) a mere elegant fraud;
But in rainy bad weather,
She fears to wet leather;
You see her most carefully picking her way
Like a cat on a wall that is pointed with glass,
While the rough neighbours pass
Plump in mud and the clay,
With her Pharisee's skirt
Lifted up from the dirt.

Dainty delicate Maud
Is so only in features
And form, like those monstrous and fabulous creatures
That are dragons behind, and her nature is bawd;
But if now lost and shady,
She was once a fine lady
And drove in her carriage like you in the Park,
Or (as now) drawled in icy impertinent tones
Scurvy scandal of thrones
And transgressed in the dark—
But averted her face
From stark open disgrace.

Dainty delicate Maud
Had an eye for a jewel,
And the glimpse of a diamond served but as fuel
To thievish desires—and she still loves a gawd—
Till she stooped to low stealing,
And hurt beyond healing;
And caught she sank deeper and deeper in mire,
While she drowned in the cup the last feelings of shame
At the brand on her name
Like the burning of fire;
And hope's portal slamm'd
On her, heedless and damn'd.

542

Dainty delicate Maud
With her eyes' jetty lashes,
Dreads more the wet pavement and possible splashes
Than staring dishonour, and now is not aw'd
By the fretting of evil
Like moth or the weevil;
She is clean in her person, and that is a boon,
And her frocks are in fashion and always a fit;
Like a dead silver moon,
Where as cerements sit
Pretty patterns of cloud,
And she carries her shroud.

POLL.

Poll believes she is pretty,
And tosses her jetty
Smooth locks in the sauciest Whitechapel way;
Who shall say
To her nay,
When she glances with joking
Sly mischief and mouth that is red and provoking,
In garments of wonderful soiled disarray?
All your scruples she thinks
Are mere squeamish pretence,
And excuses the boldest offence
When she drinks.

Poll I know is not steady,
And always was ready
For romping or crime with an equal address,
To transgress
Or confess:
She is given to smiling
At sins that you, madam, would not find beguiling
And spends her whole time betwixt cup and caress;
But she takes such delight
If she chooses to err,
That the foulest of failings in her
Appear right.

543

Poll is cheap but as charming,
And some deem alarming
When once she has fairly made up her gay mind;
Then like wind
She is blind
To the biggest obstruction,
And hurries along with a laugh to destruction
With passion and purpose no laws yet can bind;
But a method peeps out
From her maddest display,
And she knows when its best to delay
Or to pout.

Poll is company pleasant,
When no one is present
But you and herself and you bow to her will,
Nor think ill
Of her bill
Which is shamefully heavy,
And sums all she sees or resolves she can levy
From weakness or fear that is stupid and still.
But her person has points,
And in rags is more blest
Than the figure which rank may invest
And anoints.

EPILOGUE.

Now the pick of the Whitechapel flowers
Here are faithfully drawn,
As they bloom in Tartarean bowers,
Where none ever sees Dawn;
Here the cream of the loafers and laggards,
And the corner boys, bullies and blackguards,
With the true slummy taint,
In their own heathen paint,
Is portrayed by the hand of affection
And the heart that knows well,
They could move earth as hell—
If they had but the proper direction.

544

We have seen living corpses laid bare,
Evil heart, evil head,
And the wedding of crime and of care
At the feast of the dead;
With the tares for the fire in their faggots
And the horrible thoughts that (like maggots,
Creeping out, creeping in)
Swarm in natures of sin,
And spread poison wherever they ravage;
Yet a glimmer of light
In the ugliest night,
And the gem in the toad and the savage.

Give the scoundrel a song or a sword,
And a purpose in life,
He will make as no velveted lord
Into history strife;
Do not pauperise, pet him or libel,
Only arm him with prayer and Bible
And a healthier stake,
And his soul will awake;
Rigid bonds of police can but smother
The bright angel that sleeps,
In those sinister deeps—
What he wants is the hand of a brother.

Aye, the drab, all fine feathers, and brass,
Without home, without name,
And despised by her kin and her class
In her shadow and shame—
Though an outcast, a leper, a harlot,
With her sins beyond measure as scarlet
That with pestilence burn—
May repent and return;
If her infamy now be a blister,
Yet, as flame to the skies
She shall shine and arise—
What she wants is the heart of a sister.

545

VINDICATIO VITÆ MEÆ.

They say my life is marred and all misspent
With this unceasing song and babblement
Of builded words, that range in order fine
Tier upon tier, and measured line on line;
For thus appears to me the pictured strength
Of edificial words in linked length
And rhythmic revels that go on, go on,
With dreadful depths on which light never shone;
Great sudden doors that open into space
And catch a glimpse of some sweet flying face,
With tossing hair and eyes of burning blue;
And endless climbing stairs devoid of clue
In labyrinths of gold and azure lost,
Bestarred with rosy forms astray and tost
From shadow unto shadow, by hot hands
That scourge and follow into love-sick lands.
And yet they rise by other vaster powers
Than mine, these misty and enchanted bowers
Floating like silver clouds in summer air,
With columned fronts and carven porches fair
And finished. For I have no master's gift,
Whereby these pillared palaces uplift
Their lofty brows in studied insolence
Of grace and marble cold magnificence.
They are not my creations, though they rise
In rapture, when my fancy otherwise
Would shape the shining phantoms and dispose
The passion of the petals that unclose
Like flowers in spring. I am the instrument
Of over-ruling heavenly discontent
Which murmurs through me, but is never mine,
With a strange human melody divine
And architectural force that moulds and makes
Storey on storey, till it laughs and wakes
In sculptured scorn and calculated fire,
Kindled from quarries of earth's old desire.
So I must labour on, the tool and toy
Of some calm crownèd Destiny, whose joy

546

Fulfilled in me yet may not be my own,
And wrought by me is yet to me unknown.
But this I know, the purpose of the plan
Which blossoms from my will, with rainbow span
Of splendid words, to build a worthy dome
For Him who hitherto has found no home
On earth or sea in miracle of art,
Nor in the praises of one perfect heart,
And all unhoused by sunshine or by shade
Still wanders homeless through the world He made,
And though awhile He lodged in Mary's womb
His universe now gives Him but a tomb.
And thus I build, or Somewhat builds through me
Of all past sorrows and new bliss to be,
In words of worship and rock-hewn romance
The symmetry and solemn circumstance
Of a proportioned temple pure and meet
Where He may pause and rest His passing feet,
With glamoured windows glimpsing forth blue skies
And blood-red passions and Christophanies.
Necessity lies on me and my arm,
That chisels here a face and there the charm
Of shy sweet shoulders rising warm and white
From scas of purple, calm and infinite,
Beneath a yellow moon hung large and low
Where never sunbeams walk or breezes blow;
Then a young head with sad and solemn brow
Bent by the awful burden of the vow
Of ages past the orb of earthly aid,
With hecatombs of helpless lives unpaid;
And then the rush of aimless wings, that fly
For ever through a lost eternity.
Fate holds my hand with iron will, and paints
No dying glory round the dying saints
Who meet the bier as bridal kisses, lone
But strong as figures wrought of rugged stone;
And writes, in flame and tempest and hot tears,
The insufferable message of the years.
I mark the glimmer of the pearly morn,
And at my heart the fretting of the thorn

547

I feel, who know not whither I must wend
Whirled to some dark inevitable end.
I lie upon the naked breasts of fire
Of palpitating Nature, my desire
And my delight, and drinking of those wells
I gather of the spirit of all spells
And mysteries, and mixed with her I burn
In the same fount that is the funeral urn
And cradle of the worlds, where thoughts and things
Arise and melt in varied vanishings
Through birth and death. By many a shadowed shoal
I drift to some unutterable goal,
That is the starting of yet other strife
Afar in other lands and other life.
But still I seek the beautiful, the best,
And gather precious stones and red unrest
Of blushing poppies kneeling on the sod
That hang their faces down before their God,
The galaxy of grapes, the silver spume
Tost by dim waves on shores of faint perfume,
Soft tresses twined like snakes in golden braids
And mocking scarlet lips of lily maids,
White blossoms murmuring low to secret chimes,
All fruits and fairness of all spheres and times,
And silences and songs together bound
By rills of praise that gush from holy ground;
To clothe, in colours of the earth and sky,
The houseless Presence of Divinity.
And so I build, held by no mortal hand,
A frescoed fane that stayed in prayer may stand
A little space and be a robe inspired
By One who treads the earth yet unattired
And outcast, if at length I may be clothed
Myself with Love to whom I was betrothed,
Since first I heard the bitter cry of Him
Disowned by earth left therefore lost and dim.
And so I lay the polished line on line,
Stanza on stanza cut of shade and shine,
Poem on poem bodied out of thought,
And book on book in one grand temple wrought

548

With radiant moulding to its columned height,
Whose corridors are fire and dew and light.
Each verse in His great vesture is a stone,
Or but the rubbish cast beneath His throne
For its foundation, every word fits in
And finds some part of His dear beauty kin.
The spider spinning gossamers, the leaf
Unfolding to the sun, the tawny sheaf
With drooping head, the dew that breaks the cloud,
The baby bursting from the womb, the proud
Confession of pure lips that part with bliss
In the red rapture of the first love kiss,
The blush on virgin cheek of girl or grape,
The tears of love that from the heart escape
Scarcely, the noontide chant of larks, the strong
Free buffet of the breeze, the evensong
Of passing souls that through a door of flame
And faith step from their outworn earthly frame
Into the liberty of larger being — all,
Like me in measure do obey the call
To work, which binds us in a common guild,
And by the same grand impulse wafted build
The web or wonder of a painted shrine,
To make this mortal dwelling-house divine.
And thus I own the universal breath
Of passion, shaping out of life and death
My duty to the God I only know
And touch in toil that trembles in His glow,
Shed on the castled pile and baby's whim;
And labour on, and stretch blind hands to Him.
But still I see, though with the inward eye,
The hidden gleam of a theophany
In every little speck of space or large
Event of many sides without a marge
Or measure, in the worm's obscure intents,
As in the upheaval of the continents;
And still I know I am most surely led
By devious dusky roads, where blood is shed
And horrors hang, to a predestined port
For which no voyage may be smooth and short

549

Or free from perils. So I sail and sing
Down life's dark river, as I strike the string
Of this impassioned lute, though leaving here
An altar light that gilds the atmosphere
Of some torn bosom, there a blessèd thought
Which scatters roses on rough paths unsought.
The night is not all night, if thorny whin
And stabbing stones do mock me; for within
Wavers the troubled dawn of truer day;
While hours have wings and bosoms much to say,
That yet cannot be said unless in song—
When one small word might do the Maker wrong,
For whom with verse on verse I dimly raise
My humble house whose only robe is praise.
And still I feel the swathing of a Love
That works inside my being, not above,
Though far beyond my efforts blind and rude,
In all the passion of its plenitude
And awfulness of pure perfection, Light
Invisible, and armed with maiden might
Of dew and bloom and tenderness and power,
The gold on breasts of butterfly and flower,
The strongest frailty and the flame that tries
And all the holy sweet virginities;
A verity of vastness, and a grace
More than the grandeur of a woman's face
Just bathed in heaven and fresh from that white fount
Where spirit talks with spirit on the Mount;
A fearful beauty that is Life, a spell
Of unimagined peace, ineffable;
If I but catch mere glimpses of the wave
That rolls alike through cradles and the grave
And thrills through all with pulse of equal sweep,
Blue gardens of the air, dark gates of sleep.
I offer no divided love, I give
Myself, my heart, my hope whereby I live.
Thus driven by soft Omnipotence I dip
My pen in dreams, and slake my thirsty lip
With draughts of moonlight music and the night,
And snare the starbeams ere they can take flight;

550

While with my lonely heart I walk at will
And plan new worlds and build and babble still,
A child and yet a man, a penitent—
And yet a pardoned soul, an instrument
Of many strings whereon each passing air
Awakes a note of something fond and fair,
For dear dread God who shadows what must be
And through the silence lays bright hands on me.