Poetry of Cornwall
Barry Cornwall
born 1787, died 1874
Pseudonym of
Bryan Walter Procter
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London
Oh, when I was a little boy,
How often was I told
Of London and its silver walls,
And pavements all of gold;
Of women all so beautiful,
And men so true and bold,
And how all things 'tween earth and sky
Where therein bought ans sold.
And so I came to London:
'Twas on a summer's day,
And I walked at times and rode at times,
And whistled all the way;
And the blood rushed to my head,
When Ben, the waggoner, did say -
"Here 's London, boy, the Queen of towns,
As proud as she is gay."
I listened, and I looked about,
And questioned, and - behold!
The walls were not of silver,
The pavement was not gold;
But women, oh, so beautiful,
And - may I say - so bold,
I saw, and Ben said - "All things here
Are to be bought and sold."
And I found they sold the dearest things;
The mother sold her child,
And the sailor sold his life away
To plough the waters wild;
And Captains sold commissions
To young gentlemen so mild,
And some thieves sold their brother thieves,
Who hanged were or exiled.
And critics sold their paragraphs;
And poets sold their lays;
And great men sold their little men
With votes of "Ays" and "Nays;"
And parsons sold their holy words,
And blessed rich men's ways;
And women sold their love - (for life,
Or only a few days).
'Twas thus with all: - For gold, bright Art
Her radiant flag unfurled;
And the young rose let its unblown leaves
Be cankered and uncurled.
For gold against the tender heart
The liar's darts were hurled;
And soldiers, whilst Fame's trumpet blew,
Dared death across the world.
And so, farewell to London!
Where men do sell and buy
All things that are (of good and bad)
Beneath the awful sky:
Where some win wealth, and many want;
Some laugh, and many sigh:
Till, at last, all folks, from king to clown,
Shut up their books, and - die!
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