Beneath their dimities the men of trade,
’Till rainy day upon their eye-lids peep,
(Each in his narrow crib in comfort laid,)
The clerk and master innocently sleep.
The smoky call of sooty-breathing morn,
The servants stirring just above their head,
The milk-man’s whistle, or a mail-guard’s horn,
Shall soon arouse them from their feather bed:
For they no more will risk “another turn,”
But to their former posts with haste repair,