John Gay
Trivia: or, The Art of Walking the Streets of London, Book II
Winter my theme confines; whose nitry wind | ||
Shall crust the slabby mire, and kennels bind;. | ||
She bids the snow descend in flaky sheets, | ||
And in her hoary mantle clothe the streets. | ||
5 | Let not the virgin tread these slipp’ry roads, | |
The gath’ring fleece the hollow patten loads; | ||
But if thy footsteps slide with clotted frost, | ||
Strike off the breaking balls against the post. | ||
On silent wheel the passing coaches roll; | ||
10 | Oft look behind, and ward the threat’ning pole. | |
In hardened orbs the schoolboy moulds the snow, | ||
To mark the coachman with a dext’rous throw. | ||
Why do ye, boys, the kennel’s surface spread, | ||
To tempt with faithless pass the matron’s tread? | ||
15 | How can ye laugh to see the damsel spurn, | |
Sink in your frauds and her green stocking mourn? | ||
At White’s the harnessed chairman idly stands, | ||
And swings around his waist his tingling hands: | ||
The sempstress speeds to Change with red-tipped nose; | ||
20 | The Belgian stove beneath her footstool glows; | |
In half-whipped muslin needles useless lie, | ||
And shuttlecocks across the counter fly. | ||
These sports warm harmless; why then will ye prove, | ||
Deluded maids, the dang’rous flame of love? | ||
25 | Where Covent Garden’s famous temple stands, | |
That boasts the work of Jones’ immortal hands, | ||
Columns with plain magnificence appear, | ||
And graceful porches lead along the square: | ||
Here oft my course I bend, when lo! from far, | ||
30 | I spy the furies of the football war: | |
The ‘prentice quits his shop to join the crew, | ||
Increasing crowds the flying game pursue. | ||
Thus, as you roll the ball o’er snowy ground, | ||
The gath’ring globe augments with every round. | ||
35 | But whither shall I run? the throng draws nigh, | |
The ball now skims the street, now soars on high; | ||
The dext’rous glazier strong returns the bound, | ||
And jingling sashes on the penthouse sound. | ||
O roving Muse, recall that wond’rous year, | ||
40 | When winter reigned in bleak Britannia’s air; | |
When hoary Thames, with frosted osiers crowned, | ||
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound. | ||
The waterman, forlorn along the shore, | ||
Pensive reclines upon his useless oar, | ||
45 | Sees harnessed steeds desert the stony town, | |
And wander roads unstable, not their own: | ||
Wheels o’er the hardened waters smoothly glide, | ||
And rase* with whitened tracks the slipp’ry tide. | ||
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire, | ||
50 | And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire. | |
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear, | ||
And num’rous games proclaim the crowded fair. | ||
So when a gen’ral bids the martial train | ||
Spread their encampment o’er the spacious plain, | ||
55 | Thick-rising tents a canvas city build, | |
And the loud dice resound through all the field. | ||
’Twas here the matron found a doleful fate: | ||
Let elegiac lay the woe relate, | ||
Soft as the breath of distant flutes, at hours | ||
60 | When silent ev’ning closes up the flow’rs; | |
Lulling as falling water’s hollow noise; | ||
Indulging grief, like Philomela’s voice. | ||
Doll ev’ry day had walked these treach’rous roads | ||
Her neck grew warped beneath autumnal loads | ||
65 | Of various fruit; she now a basket bore: | |
That head, alas! shall basket bear no more | ||
Each booth she frequent passed, in quest of gain, | ||
And boys with pleasure heard her shrilling strain. | ||
Ah Doll! all mortals must resign their breath, | ||
70 | And industry itself submit to death! | |
The cracking crystal yields, she sinks she dies, | ||
Her head, chopped off, from her lost shoulders flies; | ||
‘Pippins,’ she cried, but death her voice confounds, | ||
And ‘pip-pip-pip’ along the ice resounds. | ||
75 | So when the Thracian furies Orpheus tore, | |
And left his bleeding trunk deformed with gore | ||
His severed head floats down the silver tide, | ||
His yet warm tongue for his lost consort cried; | ||
‘Eurydice’ with quiv’ring voice he mourned, | ||
80 | And Heber’s banks ‘Eurydice’ returned. | |
But now the western gale the flood unbinds, | ||
And black’ning clouds move on with warmer winds. | ||
The wooden town its frail foundation leaves, | ||
And Thames’ full urn rolls down his plenteous waves; | ||
85 | From ev’ry penthouse streams the fleeting snow, | |
And with dissolving frost the pavements flow. | ||
Experienced men, inured to city ways, | ||
Need not the calendar to count their days. | ||
When through the town with slow and solemn air, | ||
90 | Led by the nostril, walks the muzzled bear; | |
Behind him moves majestically dull, | ||
The pride of Hockley-hole, the surly bull; | ||
Learn hence the periods of the week to name: | ||
Mondays and Thursdays are the days of game. | ||
95 | When fishy stalls with double store are laid; | |
The golden-bellied carp, the broad-finned maid, | ||
Red-speckled trouts, the salmon’s silver jowl, | ||
The jointed lobster, and unscaly sole, | ||
And luscious scallops to allure the tastes | ||
100 | Of rigid zealots to delicious fasts; | |
Wednesdays and Fridays you’ll observe from hence, | ||
Days, when our sires were doomed to abstinence. | ||
When dirty waters from balconies drop, | ||
And dext’rous damsels twirl the sprinkling mop, | ||
105 | And cleanse the spattered sash, and scrub the stairs; | |
Know Saturday’s conclusive morn appears. | ||
Successive cries the seasons’ change declare, | ||
And mark the monthly progress of the year. | ||
Hark, how the streets with treble voices ring, | ||
110 | To sell the bounteous product of the spring! | |
Sweet-smelling flow’rs, and elder’s early bud, | ||
With nettle’s tender shoots, to cleanse the blood: | ||
And when June’s thunder cools the sultry skies, | ||
Ev’n Sundays are profaned by mack’rel cries. | ||
115 | Walnuts the fruit’rer’s hand, in autumn, stain, | |
Blue plums and juicy pears augment his gain; | ||
Next, oranges the longing boys entice | ||
To trust their copper fortunes to the dice. | ||
When rosemary and bays, the poet’s crown, | ||
120 | Are bawled in frequent cries through all the town, | |
Then judge the festival of Christmas near, | ||
Christmas, the joyous period of the year. | ||
Now with bright holly all your temples strow, | ||
With laurel green and sacred mistletoe. | ||
125 | Now, heav’n-born Charity, thy blessings shed, | |
Bid meagre Want uprear her sickly head: | ||
Bid shiv’ring limbs be warm; let plenty’s bowl | ||
In humble roofs make glad the needy soul. | ||
See, see, the heav’n-born maid her blessings shed. | ||
130 | Lo! meagre Want uprears her sickly head; | |
Clothed are the naked, and the needy glad, | ||
While selfish Avarice alone is sad. | ||
First published 1716-30
Robert Clark