FLUSHING A SEWER.—A CITIZEN'S DREAM.
I snored in slumber comatose,
Soaked, stuffed, and gorged too full by far;
Across my red and bulbous nose
Queen Mab then drove her tiny car;
Whereon I clambered precipices,
And tumbled headlong down abysses,
And roamed among strange edifices,
Till I at last saw Temple Bar.
Yes; there was Temple Bar, no doubt,
Of that I felt completely sure;
Yet there was something strange about
The gateway—mystic and obscure—
A character and meaning double;
And from foul puddles, signs of trouble,
Whilst gas around began to bubble,
It formed the mouth of some great sewer.
Then, in the visions of the night,
Behold a Broom the kennel brushed,
And a Voice cried, "'Twill be all right
Ere long!" and then the Voice was hushed;
And then I heard a sullen mutter,
A sort of grumbling in the gutter;
And after that, the same Voice utter
These words: "The Sewer must be Flushed."
When, lo! a noise of dismal cries,
Grunts, groans, and squeaks of wild despair,
The anguish of a thousand sties,
With frightful discord rent the air;
And straightway, in the dreamy juggle,
Approaching waters seemed to struggle,
Gurgle, and dash, and splash, and guggle,
And through the portal burst and tear!
Ah! what a cataract of slush
And monstrous mud was there to see.
Like noisome soup appeared to gush
The sizy torrent, now set free;
And in the mess lurched figures bloated,
With fat heads, whose dull eyes still gloated
On morsels that around them floated
Of callipash and callipee.
The Sword, the Cap, the Mace, the Chain,
Regalia of the Civic Crown,
Disgorged by that enormous drain,
Tangled and hitched with robe and gown,
With acts, and deeds, and charter-scrolls
Of fees and metage, dues and tolls
On corn, fruit, oysters, salt, and coals,
Came rolling, rumbling, tumbling down.
Pie Poudre, Leet and Baron Court,
With Swanhoppers no more to hop.
Those dark and dirty billows' sport,
Together hurled, went squash, and flop:
And one who stemmed, till Hope's last glimmer,
The slab surge that did round him simmer,
The Water Bailiff—sturdy swimmer;
He too was swamped amid the slop.
With sirloins, haunches, all these things
Were mashed; with jelly, ice, and cream,
Chantilly biscuits, legs and wings
Of game and poultry, and the stream
Bore salmon, turbot, hash, and curry,
Goblet and flagon, hurry-skurry,
My brain was bursting with the worry—
And then I started from my dream!
The Results of Striking.—It is as strange as it is lamentable that strikes should so commonly end in broken heads, since the moment the men have once struck there is a stoppage of the mill.
Not Far Out.—A cynical old Cockney of our acquaintance says he considers the moustache movement to be only a new way the young fellows have got into of giving themselves 'airs.
