II

     We don’t marry beggars, says she:  why, no: 
     It seems that to make ’em is what you do;
     And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,
     I needn’t pay half my victuals for you. 
     A man for himself should be able to scratch,
     But tickling’s a luxury:- love, indeed! 
     Love burns as long as the lucifer match,
     Wedlock’s the candle!  Now, that’s my creed.

     III

     The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat;
     And up the long path troop pair after pair. 
     The man’s well-brushed, and the woman looks neat: 
     It’s man and woman everywhere! 
     Unless, like me, you lie here flat,
     With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife: 
     She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat. 
     Appearances make the best half of life.

     IV

     You nice little madam! you know you’re nice. 
     I remember hearing a parson say
     You’re a plateful of vanity pepper’d with vice;
     You chap at the gate thinks t’ other way. 
     On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart: 
     There’s a whole week’s wages there figured in gold! 
     Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start: 
     It’s fun to a fellow who’s getting old.

     V

     Now, that’s a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers,
     And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard: 
     It gives you a house to get in from the showers,
     And food when your appetite jockeys you hard. 
     You live a respectable man; but I ask
     If it’s worth the trouble?  You use your tools,
     And spend your time, and what’s your task? 
     Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.

     VI

     You can’t match the colour o’ these heath mounds,
     Nor better that peat-fire’s agreeable smell. 
     I’m clothed-like with natural sights and sounds;
     To myself I’m in tune:  I hope you’re as well. 
     You jolly old cot! though you don’t own coal: 
     It’s a generous pot that’s boiled with peat. 
     Let the Lord Mayor o’ London roast oxen whole: 
     His smoke, at least, don’t smell so sweet.

     VII

     I’m not a low Radical, hating the laws,
     Who’d the aristocracy rebuke. 
     I talk o’ the Lord Mayor o’ London because
     I once was on intimate terms with his cook. 
     I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps,
     And, Lord, Sir! didn’t I envy his place,
     Till Death knock’d him down with the softest of taps,
     And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!

     VIII

     On the contrary, I’m Conservative quite;
     There’s beggars in Scripture ’mongst Gentiles and Jews: 
     It’s nonsense, trying to set things right,
     For if people will give, why, who’ll refuse? 
     That stopping old custom wakes my spleen: 
     The poor and the rich both in giving agree: 
     Your tight-fisted shopman’s the Radical mean: 
     There’s nothing in common ’twixt him and me.