Mary Robinson (1758–1800)

London’s Summer Morning 1806

Who has not wak’d to list° the busy sounds listen to

Of summer’s morning, in the sultry smoke

Of noisy London? On the pavement hot

The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face

And tatter’d covering, shrilly bawls his trade, 5

Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door

The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell

Proclaims the dustman’s office; while the street

Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins

The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts; 10

While tinmen’s shops, and noisy trunk-makers,

Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,

Fruit-barrows, and the hunger-giving cries

Of vegetable venders, fill the air.

Now ev’ry shop displays its varied trade, 15

And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet

Of early walkers. At the private door

The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,

Annoying the smart ’prentice, or neat girl,

Tripping with band-box° lightly. Now the sun hat box 20

Darts burning splendour on the glitt’ring pane,

Save where the canvas awning throws a shade

On the gay merchandize. Now, spruce and trim,

In shops (where beauty smiles with industry),

Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger 25

Peeps thro’ the window, watching ev’ry charm.

Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute

Of humming insects, while the limy snare

Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter

Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly vent’rous, 30

To trim the half-fill’d lamp; while at his feet

The pot-boy° yells discordant! All along drink server

The sultry pavement, the old-clothes-man cries

In tones monotonous, and side-long views

The area for his traffic: now the bag 35

Is slily open’d, and the half-worn suit

(Sometimes the pilfer’d treasure of the base

Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,

Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now

Bears his huge load along the burning way; 40

And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,

To paint the summer morning.