"THE SONG OF THE DIRT."
(With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood.)
With garments soddened and soiled,
With boot-tops covered in grime,
With trousers bespattered with foulest mud,
Picking one's way through the slime.
Slush—slush—slush!
And foul-smelling filth and dirt,
That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch—
I sing the "Song of the Dirt."
Dirt—dirt—dirt!
In the January night,
And dirt—dirt—dirt!
While the weather is muggy though bright.
Smell, and slime, and reek,
Reek, and slime and smell;
Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip,
And smother myself as well.
O! but for one short hour!
A respite: 'twould be so sweet!
I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom,
If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet.
For only one short hour,
To feel as I used to feel:
The pavement free from grease and slime
In my walk that's now an ordeal.
Funny Folks, January, 1884.