Classic Poem

Hail King of Shreds and Patches; hail
Disperser of the poor!
Thou dog in office, set to bark
All beggars from the door!

Great overseer of overseers,
And dealer in old rags,
Thy public duty never fails,
Thy ardour never flags!

Oh, when I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I miss !
(Had Doctor Watts walked nowadays,
He would have written this.)

So well the vagrant-catchers prowl,
So clear thy caution keeps
The path — oh Bodkin, sure thou hast
The eye that never sleeps!

No Belisarius pleads for alms,
No Benbow lacketh legs:
The pious man in black is now
The only man that begs!

Street-Handels are disorganized,
Disbanded every band —
The silent scraper at the door
Is scarce allowed to stand.

The sweeper brushes with his broom,
The carstairs with his chalk
Retires, the cripple leaves his stand —
But cannot sell his walk!

The old wall-blind resigns the wall,
The camels hide their humps ,
The witherington without a leg
Mayn't beg upon his stumps!

Poor Jack is gone, that used to doff
His battered, tattered hat,
And show his dangled sleeve — alas,
There seemed no arm in that!

Oh, was it such a sin to air
His true-blue naval rags,
Glory's own trophy, like St Paul,
Hung round with holy flags!

Thou knowest best! I meditate,
My Bodkin, no offence!
Let us, henceforth, but guard our pounds,
Thou dost protect our pence!

Well art thou pointed 'gainst the poor,
For, when the beggar-crew
Bring their petitions, thou art paid
Of course to run 'em through !

Doubtless thou art what Hamlet meant —
To wretches the last friend —
What ills can mortals have they can't
With a bare Bodkin end?