The Newsman wound his noisy horn,
And told how slaughter'd friends and foes
Lay heap'd, five thousand men, one morn,
In thy red trenches, Badajoz.
'Twas Fame, and had its fond abettors;
Though some folk now would think it wise
To change that F for other letters,
And hear no more such London Cries.
VI.
Here chimed the tiny Sweep;—since then
I've loved to drop that trifling balm,
Prescribed, lost Elia, by thy pen,
Within his small half-perish'd palm.[14]
And there the Milkmaid tripp'd and splash'd,
—All milks that pump or pail supplies,
(Save that with human kindness dash'd,)
'Twas mine to quaff 'mid London Cries.
VII.
That Dustman—how he rang his bell,
And yawn'd, and bellow'd "dust below!"
I knew the very fellow's yell
When first I heard it years ago.
What fruits of toil, and tears, and trust,
Of cunning hands, and studious eyes,
Like Death, he daily sacks to dust,
(Here goes my mite) 'mid London Cries!
VIII.
The most vociferous of the prints
Was He who chaunted Savoys sweet,
The same who stunn'd, a century since,
That proud, poor room in Rider Street:
When morning now awakes his note,
Like bitter Swift, I often rise,
And wish his wares were in that throat
To stop at least his London Cries.[15]
IX.
That Orange-girl—far different powers
Were hers from those that once could win
His worthless heart whose arid hours
Were fed with dew and light by Gwynn;
The dew of feelings fresh as day—
The light of those surpassing eyes—
The darkest raindrop has a ray,
And Nell had hers 'mid London Cries.[16]