I take my bucket to the ash-hole dim,
And there I fill it to the very brim;
Then in the sidewalk take my slippery stand,
And scatter ashes with a liberal hand,
So at my gate no broken heads I see;
No cripple shakes his gory leg at me;
In kind regard I’m held by rich and poor,
Save by the surgeon who resides next door.”
Thus Adam told his tale, the while
The great scribe listened with a brightening smile,