The Chimney-Sweeper's Song
Hath Christmas furr'd your Chimneys,
Or have the maides neglected,
Doe Fire-balls droppe from your Chimney's toppe,
The Pidgin is respected,
Looke up with feare and horror,
O how my mistresse wonders!
The streete doth crie, the newes doth flie,
The boyes they thinke it thunders.
Then up I rush with my pole and brush,
I scowre the chimney's Jacket,
I make it shine as bright as mine,
When I have rub'd and rak'd it.
Take heed, ten groates you'le forfeit,
The Maior will not have under,
In vain is dung, so is your gun
When brickes doe flie asunder:
Let not each faggot fright ye,
When threepence will me call in,
The Bishopps foote is not worse than soote
If ever it should fall in.
Up will I rush, etc.
The sent, the smoake ne're hurts me,
The dust is never minded,
Mine Eyes are glasse men sweare as I passe
Or else I had bin blinded,
For in the midst of Chimneys
I laugh, I sing, I hollow,
I chant my layes in Vulcan's praise
As merry as the swallow.
Still up I rush, etc.
With Engines and devices
I scale the proudest chimney,
The Prince's throne to mine alone
Gives place, the Starrs I climb ny.
I scorne all men beneath me
While there I stand a scowring,
All they below looke like a Crow,
Or men on Paules a tow'ring.
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poem by William Strode
Added by Poetry Lover
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