Classic Poem

Paul's clock struck twelve, 'twas time to go to bed;
The club broke up, each from the table fled.
Claret had topsy-turvy turned my brain;
From Brown's like mad I staggered to Bow Lane.
With many a stumble reeling to my door,
Upon the steps I trod upon a whore.
Starting, I gazed! The watchman coming by,
‘Ad zounds,’ said I, ‘here does the devil lie:
I beg that you would bring your lantern nigh.’
‘What? Who? My master, here,’ replied the slave;
‘I'll light you home, sir, if you'll give me leave.’
‘Home, friend!’ quoth I, ‘I live at this same house:
This is my trap, I am a city mouse;
But some damned, venomous cat, I fear, doth lie
To snap me up as I am passing by.’
The midnight representer of the moon
Displayed his light, and I distinguished soon
A poor geneva drab at full length laid,
As drunk as hell by juice of berry made,
And fall'n a victim to the midnight shade.
I roused the boozy cat with point of sword;
She gaped and stared, but could not speak a word.
Quoth I, ‘A coach, good honest watchman, call:
This poor unlucky bitch has got a fall.
I think she must be stunned; pray lend a hand,
Let's see if this poor toad can make a stand.’
With many a heavy lift, against the door
Upon her bum we raised this dismal whore.
The watchman called a coach, helped in my trull
And after headlong tumbled in—the fool.
The coachman asked me to what part of town
My honour would be drove, and where set down.
I told him, faith, I could not tell him where,
But where he proper thought to take the air:
Sufficed with that, he straightway shut the door,
And safely buttoned in myself and whore.
Both drunk and both asleep, we jolted on,
Nor waked before he stopped to set us down.
In Tothill Street he wisely stood to stop:
Starting I waked, when lo! a noted shop
That sold geneva was before my eyes,
Which at first glance did give a strange surprise,
For I'd been dreaming much of paradise.
At first I fancied I had been in hell,
But thought it strange they there should liquor sell:
What first so made me think, and curse my fate,
A red-faced fellow in a chair of state,
Like Belzebub, in fiery triumph sat.
Others did to their matted beds retire,
And belched geneva which did soon take fire,
By help of lighted coals a little higher.
With gaping throats they swallowed pints so fast,
By Jove, I thought they would have drank their last.
At length a fellow with a string and bladder,
With coat embroidered o'er with gin and slabber,
With awkward bow approached the coach's side,
And begged me to walk in and eke my bride.
With jolting of the coach, sleep and fresh air,
My Polly Peachum looked exceeding fair;
Besides, if you must know, she pukèd there.
The demons all arose and gave me place;
I sat me down and viewed my Polly's face,
Which did resemble much a wainscot-case.
I called for gin by quarts; they drank about,
And some of honour talked and made a rout,
Others to state affairs much bent their mind;
No tongue lay still, but all was unconfined.
At length a lusty strum called Bushel Nan,
With half a bellows to supply a fan,
Did whisk the smoke around at such a rate
That I was very glad to shift my seat.
I took fresh quarters nearer to the fire
And up behind the settle did retire;
There took a nod until the break of day,
And then each fiend broke up and went away.
Some to the markets went, baskets to carry,
And others reeling home both drunk and weary.
I for my own part left my Polly there,
And to Bow Lane jogged nodding in a chair.