Lord Mayor’s Day.
A Mock Elegy.
The sun creeps slowly o’er the eastern hills,
The lazy pacing hours attend his way,
Thro’ the thick fog the scarce pervading beam,
Gives London’s Lord his gorgeous gaudy day.
Now the grim’d scavenger his besom plies,
And whistles at his work, unwonted glee,
The streets look decent, ev’n in courtier’s eyes,
While the wretch sweeps for dirtier soil than he.