In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, waggons, taverns, shops, Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops, That, as we walk upon the river’s ridge, Assault the nose--below the bridge. A walk, however, as tradition tells, That once a poor blind Tobit used to choose, Because, incapable of other views, He met with “such a sight of smells.” But on, and on, and on, In spite of all unsavoury shocks, Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John, Steadily steering ship-like for the docks-- And now they reach a place the Muse, unwilling, Recalls for female slang and vulgar doing, The famous Gate of Billing, That does not lead to cooing-- And now they pass that House that is so ugly A Customer to people looking “smuggley”-- And now along that fatal Hill they pass Where centuries ago an Oxford bled, And proved--too late to save his life, alas!-- That _he_ was “off his head.” At last before a lofty brick-built pile Sir Peter stopp’d, and with mysterious smile Tingled a bell that served to bring The wire-drawn genius of the ring, A species of commercial Samuel Weller-- To whom Sir Peter--tipping him a wink, And something else to drink-- “Show us the cellar.” Obsequious bow’d the man, and led the way Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows small, Dappled with mud, let in a dingy ray-- A dirty tax, if they were tax’d at all. At length they came into a cellar damp, With venerable cobwebs fringed around, A cellar of that stamp Which often harbours vintages renown’d, The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly, With sherry, brown or golden, Or port, so olden, Bereft of body ’tis no longer portly-- But old or otherwise--to be veracious-- That cobwebb’d cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious, Held nothing crusty--but crustaceous. Prone, on the chilly floor, Five splendid Turtles--such a five! Natives of some West Indian shore, Were flapping all alive, Late landed from the Jolly Planter’s yawl-- A sight whereon the dignitaries fix’d Their eager eyes, with ecstacy unmix’d, Like fathers that behold their infants crawl, Enjoying every little kick and sprawl. Nay--far from fatherly the thoughts they bred Poor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried! The Aldermen too plainly wish’d them dead And Aldermanbury’d! “There!” cried Sir Peter, with an air Triumphant as an ancient victor’s, And pointing to the creatures rich and rare, “There’s picters!” “Talk of Olympic Games! They’re not worth mention; The real prize for wrestling is when Jack, In Providence or Ascension, Can throw a lively turtle on its back!”