Now hardly here and there a Hackney-coach |
Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach. |
Now Betty from her master’s bed had flown, |
And softly stole to discompose her own. |
The slipshod prentice from his master’s door, |
Had par’d the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. |
Now Moll had whirl’d her mop with dex’trous airs, |
Prepar’d to scrub the entry and the stairs. |
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace |
The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place. |
The smallcoal-man was heard with cadence deep, |
’Till drown’d in shriller notes of chimney-sweep. |
Duns at his Lordship’s gate began to meet, |
And brickdust Moll had scream’d through half a
street. |
The turnkey now his flock returning sees, |
Duly let out a nights to steal for fees. |
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, |
And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.
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Jonathan Swift |
Classic Poems |
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[ A Description of the Morning ] [ Verses on the Death of Dr Swift ] |
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