A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
I.
In ev’ry Town, where Thamis rolls his Tyde,
A narrow pass there is, with Houses low;
Where ever and anon, the Stream is ey’d,
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.
II.
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 ev’ry door are sun-burnt matrons seen,
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;
Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between;
Scolds answer foul-mouth’d scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.
III.
The snappish cur, (the passengers’ annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimp’ring 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 bass are drown’d.
IV.
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, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:
There learn’d she speech from tongues that never cease.
Slander beside her, like a Mag-pie, chatters,
With Envy, (spitting Cat) dread foe to peace;
Like a curs’d Cur, Malice before her clatters,
And vexing ev’ry wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.
V.
Her dugs were mark’d by ev’ry Collier’s hand,
Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the stall:
She scratch’d, bit, and spar’d ne lace ne band,
And bitch and rogue her answer was to all;
Nay, e’en the parts of shame by name would call:
Yea, when she passed 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.
VI.
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, statues, urns, and Johnston’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 ey’d
Vales, spires, meandring streams, and Windsor’s tow’ry pride.
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External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- The Day Of Wrath / Dies Iræ poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- The Confederate Flags poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- The Bride poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- T.A.H. poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Presentiment poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Polyphemus poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Politics poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- On The Wedding Of The Aeronaut poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Montefiore poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Matter For Gratitude poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Matter For Gratitude poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Invocation poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- In Defense poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Geotheos poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Elixer Vitæ poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Elixer Vitæ poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Egotist poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- In Defense poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Creation poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- Convalescent poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
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