In

Lofty purpose, strong endeavour, These are not ordain’d for me— Wayside flower might strive for ever, Never could it grow a tree— Yet a child may laugh to gather, Or a sick man smile to see.

So I too in God’s creation Have my own peculiar part, He must have some purpose surely For weak hand and timid heart, Transient joys for my diffusing, For my healing transient smart.

Just to fling a moment’s brightness Over dreary down-trod ways, Just to fan a better impulse By a full and ready praise— Pitying where I may not succour, Loving where I cannot raise.

p. 7ORGAN-BOYS. A LEGEND OF LONDON. By Thomas Ingoldsby, Minor.

p. 7

A LEGEND OF LONDON.

By Thomas Ingoldsby

Minor

In days—not old—a Demon lived, And a terrible Fiend was he, For he ground and he ground All London around, A huge barrel-organ of hideous sound, Incessantly! From morning’s light Till the deep midnight, In all sorts of streets and all sorts of squares. Up the cul-de-sacs—down the thoroughfares, Where Thames rolls his waters from Greenwich to Kew, Not a lane could you find that he didn’t go through. You heard him at all times when most unaware, In quiet back-parlours up five flights of stair; When you ate, when you drank, when you read morning prayer, Or sat dozing awhile in an easy armchair, Or read a new novel—or talk’d to a friend, Or endeavour’d to settle accounts without end, Or when grief (or champagne), caused an ache in your head, Or you promised yourself to lie latish in bed, It was all the same That Demon came, Grind! grind! p. 8Peace there was none, Under the sun; That odious organ never had done. Sick, sad, or sorry, No end to the worry. No sort of grief Brought the slightest relief; You might send out to say you were dying or dead, The organ ground on as if nothing were said! Grind! grind! Till you lost your mind. No use to scold, or draw down the blind, The fiend only ground more loud and more fast, Till you had to give him a shilling at last. So that having tormented you madly that day, He would 

 Prev. P 19/103 next