Elegy
Written in Bartlemy Fair, at
Five o’clock in the morning, in 1810.
The clock-bell tolls the hour of early day,
The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie,
The watchman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the fair—all solitude to me!
Now the first beams of morning glad the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save when the sheep-dog bays with hoarse affright,
And brutal drovers pen the unwilling folds.
Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower,
The lock’d-out ’prentice, or frail nymph complain,
Of such as, wandering near their secret bower,
Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain.
Beneath those ragged tents—that boarded shade,
Which late display’d its stores in tempting heaps;
There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid,
There, guardian of the whole, the master sleeps.
The busy call of care-begetting morn,
The well-slept passenger’s unheeding tread;
The showman’s clarion, or the echoing horn,
Too soon must rouse them from their lowly bed.
Perhaps in this neglected booth is laid
Some head volcanic, oft discharging fire!
Hands—that the rod of magic lately sway’d;
Toes—that so nimbly danc’d upon the wire.
Some clown, or pantaloon—the gazers’ jest,
Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood:
Some tired-out posture-master here may rest,
Some conjuring swordsman—guiltless of his blood!
The applause of listening cockneys to command,
The threats of city-marshal to despise;
To give delight to all the grinning band,
And read their merit in spectators’ eyes,