p. 57

Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night; Though day be dreary and night be wet, You will find a ceaseless concourse met; Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle, And now and again their Fife fists fight.

Often here the voice of the crier Heralds a sale in the City Hall, And slowly but surely drawing nigher Is heard the baker’s bugle call. The baker halts where the two ways meet, And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet That with breath of bellows and heart of fire He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall.

p. 58And on Saturday night just after eleven, When the taverns have closed a moment ago, The vocal efforts of six or seven Make the corner a place of woe. For the time is fitful, the notes are queer, And it sounds to him who dwelleth near Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven By orphan cats who are left below.

p. 58

Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning, Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew, Hearken to me and receive my warning:  Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few And most of them troubled with rat or mouse, Never take rooms in a corner house; Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning Shall be for a portion unto you.

p. 59THE POET’S HAT

p. 59

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed through the doorway into the street, A strong wind lifted his hat from his head, And he uttered some words that were far from sweet. And then he started to follow the chase, And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet, It made the people pause in a crowd, And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat, The errand-boy shouted hooray! The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand, And smiled in a very rude way; And the clergyman thought, ‘I have heard many words, But never, until to-day, Did I hear any words that were quite so bad As I heard that young man say.’

p. 60A SONG OF GREEK PROSE

p. 60

Thrice happy are those Who ne’er heard of Greek Prose— Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes; For Liddell and Scott Shall cumber them not, Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.

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