Classic Poem

Apollo now, Sol's carman, drives his stud
Home to the mews that's seated in the West,
And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames Street mud,
Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress'd.

So from the stands the empty carts are dragg'd,
The horses homeward to their stables go,
And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagg'd,
Prepare to taste the luxury of — " Wo! "

Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar,
Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields,
And Mr Sweetman's gig is at the door,
To take him to his house in Hackney Fields.

Closed are the gates of the West India Docks,
Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose,
And I, with other careless carmen, flocks
To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose.

They smoke a pipe — the shepherd's pipe I wakes,
Them skittles pleases — me the Muse invites,
They in their ignorance to drinking takes,
I, bless'd with learning, takes a pen and writes.