The master-sweeps go dancing by,
With a gridiron painted on every back.
But when they are ranged in the market-place,
The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,
And cozens a penny for her sweet face
To keep their golden throats in tune.
Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,
And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,
A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,
Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;