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Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach,—what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale: Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turn’d, till home had turn'd a corner, quite
Gone out of sight!
At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,
And looking round
Where rest was to be found,
On which she meant to sup,-
“ The rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle."
One day, it was before a civic dinner,
Two London Aldermen, no matter which, Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker, Skinner
But both were florid, corpulent, and rich, And both right fond of festive demolition,
Set forth upon a secret expedition. Yet not, as might be fancied from the token,
To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street
Or drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken,
Where folks take water,
Jostled and jostling, through the mud,
Peculiar to the Town of Lud, VOL. II.
Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they dived,
Past many a gusty avenue, through which
Came yellow fog, and smell of pitch, From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf derived; With darker fumes, brought eddying by the
Hides, tallow, Russia-matting, hemp and flax, Salt-cod, red-herrings, sprats, and kipper'd salmons,
Nuts, oranges, and lemons, Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum, Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin, and rum ; Alamode-beef and greens—the London soil — Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine, and oil, Bark, assafoetida, squills, vitriol, hops, In short, all whiffs, and sniffs, and puffs, and snuffs, From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs, Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or slops— [shops, In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, wagons, taverns, Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops, That, as we walk upon the river's ridge,
Assault the nose—below the bridge.
A walk, however, as tradition tells,
He met with “ such a sight of smells.”
But on, and on, and on,
Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John,
ing, Recalls for female slang and vulgar doing,
The famous Gate of Billing
That does not lead to cooing—
That he was “off his head.”
At last before a lofty brick-built pile
And something else to drink,
Obsequious bow'd the man, and led the way Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows
small, Dappled with mud, let in a dingy rayA dirty tax, if they were tax'd at all.
At length they came into a cellar damp,
A cellar of that stamp
With sherry, brown or golden,
Or port, so olden,
Prone on the chilly floor,
Were flapping all alive,
A sight whereon the dignitaries fix’d
Their eager eyes, with ecstasy unmix'd,
“ There's picters !"