Garnished and swept do stand—
'Tis where doth stream the fœtid steam
From the bone-boiler's vat,
The knacker's yard, which penned and barred,
Sends out its odours fat;
The slaughter-vault, whence, ne'er at fault,
Peereth the carrion rat.
In tanneries' stink, on cesspools' brink,
I sit and sleep and snuff;
The fever's breath brings me no death,