While underneath my window “caller haddies!” the fishwives screech,
And, of course, no boots are handy, and the coals are out of reach.
“Oh! but to breathe the breath of a glass of barley bree,
With my heels upon the mantel-piece where no such heels should be;
For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel
Before I knew of the awful fag of climbing the Spital hill.
“Oh! but for one short hour, a respite however brief,
Just leisure enough to get a nip, and a smoke of the fragrant leaf;
A little strong language would ease my heart. A little enough, I think,
To oblige the recording scribe below to get a fresh bottle of ink.”