THE 'SWEEP' OF LONG AGO

THE 'SWEEP' OF LONG AGO-  A POEM

CALL'D is the little sweep, 

By a resolute voice and gruff, 
While the cold stars twinkle in the deep, 

And the winter winds are rough.

He huddles on his rags, 

Without a wash or prayer; 

He shoulders his broom and sooty bags, 

And dives down the rotten stair.   

Half awake the boy glides out, 

In the streets so drear and lone; 

The clouds have been down in a waterspout, 

And the kennels are like the Rhone. 

He nibbles a crust as he goes, 

He shivers with sleet and rain, 

Through his third-hand boots peep frozen toes, 

And his hands are numb with pain. 

He rings at the rich man's door, 

And, 'Sweep!' he loudly screams; 

But footman, cook, and housemaid snore, 

And the buttoned page-boy dreams. 

Then louder swells his cry, 

And the bell yet louder peals, 

Till upon the housemaid's memory 

'That kitchen chimney!' steals. 

'Ann! hark! The door-bell rings! 

There's the sweep, Ann! Don't you hear?' 

The cook awakes, and dons her 'things,' 

Snappish and cross, we fear. 

To leave one's morning sleep 

At a cold and dismal hour, 

When the winter stars yet blink and peep, 

Is enough to make one sour. 

And to hear one's mistress scold, 

As one hurries down, half-drest, 

Is galling to one of mortal mould, 

Robbed of a two-hours' rest. 

Thy lines may be hard, O Cook! 

Thy life perpetual Lent, 

But on the sweep's ill-fortune look, 

And learn to be content. 

He, in the days gone by,  

Ere pity changed his doom,

Must weep and toil, and sometimes die, 

In suffocating gloom. 

Hail to the kindly hearts 

Which cared, poor Sweep, for you; 

And here's to the brush of Mister Smart's,* 

That sweeps the chimney-flue. 

G.S.O.

* The inventor of the machine called 'The Last Chimney sweeper.'  

References:

Chatterbox 1877