II. SPENSER.

       Table of Contents

      THE ALLEY.

       1 In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde,

       A narrow pass there is, with houses low;

       Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,

       And many a boat soft sliding to and fro.

       There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,

       The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall:

       How can ye, mothers, vex your children so?

       Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,

       And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

       2 And on the broken pavement, here and there,

       Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;

       A brandy and tobacco shop is near,

       And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;

       And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry.

       At every door are sunburnt matrons seen,

       Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;

       Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between;

       Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween.

       3 The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy)

       Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;

       The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy,

       Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;

       The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,

       And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;

       To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;

       The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,

       And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are drown'd.

       4 Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,

       Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days

       Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,

       Cod, whiting, oyster, mack'rel, sprat, or plaice:

       There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease.

       Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,

       With Envy (spitting cat!), dread foe to peace;

       Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters,

       And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.

       5 Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand,

       Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall:

       She scratchèd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,

       And 'bitch' and 'rogue' her answer was to all;

       Nay, even the parts of shame by name would call:

       Yea, when she passèd by or lane or nook,

       Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,

       And by his hand obscene the porter took,

       Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.

       6 Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,

       Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;

       Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,

       And Twick'nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,

       Grots, stutues, urns, and Jo—n's dog and bitch,

       Ne village is without, on either side,

       All up the silver Thames, or all adown;

       Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyed

       Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.