LINES BY AN EAST-END J.P. AUGUST: a flood of sunshine
in the street,— August,--and "quite a stench"
(Observes a coster, whom I chance to meet) "Of clover in the air."
Chockful of saws most wise, most modern, fair, Round-bellied I make briskly for the Bench,— This is the day for hearing Rate appeals.
Poor folk troop past us sitting in our glory, On one another's heels, With many a piteous, many a shaky story.
First, one, "I can't pay, 'cause I han't a penny." Then, we, "We know not can't,' forthwith you must, "Or we shall seize your goods."—" I've not got any." Next, one old soul, "Your Worships—" "Is it just "To have a home, and pay no rates or taxes ?
Make way for others who will pay their way." "Your Worship, all I axes
Is for a little time."—" Take seven days, from to-day.- They come and go, in melancholy line.
Now we adjourn for sandwiches and wine, And chat and joke,—we can be wise and merry ; In one thing we agree,—Iwould never do, It would be silly, To be too easy with the suppliant crew; It would- be wrong; yet somehow, willy-nilly, This ghastly thought gets mixed up with my sherry,— Perhaps, in other worlds, at future dates,
I may be summoned for parochial rates. M.
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