By Jonathan Swift
Prepared by Jack Lynch

A Description of the Morning.  April, 1709.


Now hardly here and there an hackney-coach
Appearing showed the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown
And softly stole to discompose her own.
The slipshod prentice from his master's door
Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dexterous airs,
Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel-edge where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep
'Till drown'd in shriller tones 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 school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.
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