Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

NOW hardly here and there a hackney-coach

Appearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach.

The slip-shod ’prentice from his master’s door

Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.

Now Moll had whirl’d her mop with dext’rous airs,

Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.

The youth with broomy stumps began to trace

The kennel’s edge, where wheels had worn the place.

The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,

Till drown’d in shriller notes of chimney-sweep;

Duns at his lordship’s gate began to meet;

And brickdust Moll had scream’d through half the street.

The turnkey now his flock returning sees,

Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:

The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,

And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.