Louder, and louder still, The fellow sang with horrible goodwill, Curses both loud and deep his sole gratuities, From scribes bewildered making many a flaw In deeds of law They had to draw; With dreadful incongruities In posting ledgers, making up accounts To large amounts, Or casting up annuities-- Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse, Against whose overwhelming force No in-voice stood a chance, of course! The Actuary pshawed and pished, And knit his calculating brows, and wished The singer “a bad life”--a mental murther! The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunder Wished the musician further, Poles distant--and no wonder! For Law and Harmony tend far asunder-- The Lady could not keep her temper calm, Because the sinner did not sing a psalm-- The Fiddler in the very same position As Hogarth’s chafed musician (Such prints require but cursory reminders) Came and made faces at the wretch beneath, And wishing for his foe between his teeth, (Like all impatient elves That spite themselves) Ground his own grinders. But still with unrelenting note, Though not a copper came of it, in verity, The horrid fellow with the ragged coat, And iron throat, Heedless of present honour and prosperity, Sang like a Poet singing for posterity, In penniless reliance-- And, sure, the most immortal Man of Rhyme Never set Time More thoroughly at defiance! From room to room, from floor to floor, From Number One to Twenty-four The Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost, Down came Miss Frost, Expostulating at her open door-- “Peace, monster, peace! Where _is_ the New Police! I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray, Don’t stand there bawling, fellow, don’t! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do--there’s a dear good man--do go away.” Says he, “I won’t!” The spinster pulled her door to with a slam, That sounded like a wooden d--n, For so some moral people, strictly loth To swear in words, however up, Will crash a curse in setting down a cup, Or through a doorpost vent a banging oath-- In fact, this sort of physical transgression Is really no more difficult to trace Than in a given face _A very bad expression_. However, in she went, Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones’s Clerk at Number Ten; Who, throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men: “Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant! I cannot write a sentence--no one can’t! So just pack up your trumps, And stir your stumps--” Says he, “I shan’t!”