Oh, painters, you who always "come
Before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March"—till May—with some
Atrocious smell of paint, and make
The streets in such a shocking state, you
Are quite a nuisance—how I hate you!
How can I wear in peace a neat,
Silk hat, and coat of decent black,
When, passing you in any street,
Your paint may tumble on my back,