The costermonger shrieks for gin,
And helpless rolls about the gutter;
Where Sacharissa ’neath her fan
Was smiling at his lordship’s raving,
The ragged wife adores the man,
Who beats her head against the paving.
There’s not a spot and not a stone,
But spoke a poem when we met it,
That does not echo to the moan
Of poverty—do we regret it?