o lud! i say
do change your day
to some time when your show can really show;
when silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow.
look at your sweepers, how they shine in may
have it when there’s a sun to gild the coach,
and sparkle in tiara—bracelet—brooch—
diamond—or paste—of sister, mother, daughter;
when grandeur really may be grand—
but if thy pageant’s thus obscured by land—
o lud! it’s ten times worse upon the water!
[pg 226]
suppose, o lud, to show its plan,
i call, like blue beard’s wife, to sister anne.
who’s gone to beaufort wharf with niece and aunt
to see what she can see—and what she can’t;
chewing a saffron bun by way of cud,
to keep the fog out of a tender lung,
while perch’d in a verandah nicely hung
over a margin of thy own black mud,
o lud!
now sister anne, i call to thee,
look out and see:
of course about the bridge you view them rally
and sally,
with many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter;
the fishmongers’ grand boat, but not for butter,
the goldsmiths’ glorious galley,—
of course you see the lord mayor’s coach aquatic,
with silken banners that the breezes fan,
in gold all glowing,
and men in scarlet rowing,
like doge of venice to the adriatic;
of course you see all this, o sister anne?
“no, i see no such thing!
i only see the edge of beaufort wharf,
with two coal lighters fasten’d to a ring:
and, dim as ghosts,
two little boys are jumping over posts;
and something farther off,
that’s rather like the shadow of a dog,
and all beyond is fog.
if there be any thing so fine and bright,
to see it i must see by second sight.
[pg 227]
call this a show? it is not worth a pin!
i see no barges row,
no banners blow;
the show is merely a gallanty-show,
without a lamp or any candle in.”
but sister anne, my dear,
although you cannot see, you still may hear?
of course you hear, i’m very sure of that,
the “water parted from the sea” in c,
or “where the bee sucks,” set in b,
or huntsman’s chorus from the freyschutz frightful,
or handel’s water music in a flat.
oh music from the water comes delightful!
it sounds as no where else it can:
you hear it first,
in some rich burst,
then faintly sighing,
tenderly dying
away upon the breezes, sister anne.
“there is no breeze to die on;
and all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harps,
could never cut their way with ev’n three sharps
through such a fog as this, you may rely on.
i think, but am not sure, i hear a hum,
like a very muffled double drum,
and then a something faintly shrill,
like bartlemy fair’s old buz at pentonville.
and now and then hear a pop,
as if from pedley’s soda water shop.
[pg 228]
i’m almost ill with the strong scent of mud,
and, not to mention sneezing,
my cough is, more than usual, teasing;
i really fear that i have chill’d my blood,
o lud! o lud! o lud! o lud! o lud!”
