Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday, That wine and bun-day, Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats Before they died by bit or sup, Some meddling Marplot would blow up, Just at the moment critical, The economy political Of Saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats. Equally ’twould be undone, Suppose the Bishop of London, On that great day In June or May, When all the large small family of charity, Brown, black, or carroty, Walk in their dusty parish shoes In too, too many two-and-twos, To sing together till they scare the walls Of old St. Paul’s, Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white, Some say a gratifying sight, Tho’ I think sad--but that’s a schism-- To witness so much pauperism-- Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make In this poor overcrowded world more room, Proposed to shake Down that immense extinguisher, the dome-- Some humane Martin in the charity _Gal_-way I fear would come and interfere, Save beadle, brat, and overseer, To walk back in their parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos, Islington--Wapping--or Pall Mall way! Thus people hatch’d from goose’s egg, Foolishly think a pest a plague, And in its face their doors all shut, On hinges oil’d with cajeput-- Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags, At hoisting up of yellow flags, While you and I are crying “Orange Boven!” Why should we let precautions so absorb us, Or trouble shipping with a quarantine-- When if I understand the thing you mean, We ought to _import_ the Cholera Morbus! TO ST. SWITHIN. “The rain it raineth every day.” The Dawn is overcast, the morning low’rs, On ev’ry window-frame hang beaded damps Like rows of small illumination lamps, To celebrate the Jubilee of Show’rs! A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves, The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers, And from the Houses’ eaves Tumble eaves-droppers. The hundred clerks that live along the street, Bondsmen to mercantile and City schemers, With squashing, sloshing and galoching feet, Go paddling, paddling, through the wet, like steamers, Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend-- Umbrellas pass of every shade of green, And now and then a crimson one is seen, Like an Umbrella _ripen’d_. Over the way a waggon Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking, While in the George and Dragon The man is keeping himself dry--and drinking! The Butcher’s boy skulks underneath his tray, Hats shine--shoes don’t--and down droop collars, And one blue Parasol cries all the way To school, in company with four small scholars!