A Story
Walking one afternoon along the Strand,
My wondering eyes did suddenly expand
Upon a pretty leash of Country Lasses.
'Heavens! my dear beauteous Angels, how d'ye do?
Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye.'—
'Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you;
We're just to London come: well pray how be ye?
'We're just a going, while 'tis dark.
Lord! come, for once be so polite,
And condescend to be our Spark.'—
'With all my heart, my Angels.'—On we walk'd,
And much of London, much of Cornwall, talk'd.
Now did I hug myself to think
How much that glorious Structure would surprise;
How much from its awful Grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths and marv'ling eyes
As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
Saint Paul's just opeing on our view;
Behold, my lovely Strangers, one and all,
Gave, all at once, a diabolical Squawl;
As if they had been tumbled on the stones,
And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.
After well frightening people with their cries,
And sticking to a Ribbon-shop their eyes,
They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,
And, clattering all together, thus begun:
'Swinge! here are Colours then, to please;
Delightful things, I vow to Heaven:
Why, not to see such things as these,
We never should have been forgiven.
'Here, here, are clever things: good Lord!
And, Sister, here, upon my word;
Here, here, look; here are beauties to delight:
Why, how a body's heels might dance
Along from Launceston to Penzance,
Before that one might meet with such a sight!'—
'Come, Ladies, 'twill be dark,' cried I, 'I fear:
Pray let us view St Paul's, it is so near.'—
'Lord! Peter,' cried the Girls, 'don't mind Saint Paul;
Sure you're a most incurious soul:
Why, we can see the Church another day;
Don't be afraid; Saint Paul's can't run away.'
Reader,
If e'er thy bosom felt a thought sublime,
Drop tears of pity with the Man of Rhyme.