The Pot-Boy.
Let poets sing the high-flown praise
Of shepherds and of rural joys,
Whilst I direct my humbler lays
To town, its bustle and its noise.
The Pot-boy’s joys shall be my theme,
Nor shall a barren subject be,
When rising from some lightsome dream,
Whitechapel streets he treads with glee.
Bliss is not always join’d to wealth,