---

George Meredith - The Beggar`s Soliloquy
Work rating: Low

I 

Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, 
To lie all alone on a ragged heath, 
Where your nose isn`t sniffing for bones or beer, 
But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath. 
The cottagers bustle about the door, 
And the girl at the window ties her strings. 
She`s a dish for a man who`s a mind to be poor; 
Lord! women are such expensive things. 

         II 

We don`t marry beggars, says she: why, no: 
It seems that to make `em is what you do; 
And as I can cook, and scour, and sew, 
I needn`t pay half my victuals for you. 
A man for himself should be able to scratch, 
But tickling`s a luxury:- love, indeed! 
Love burns as long as the lucifer match, 
Wedlock`s the candle! Now, that`s my creed. 

         III 

The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat; 
And up the long path troop pair after pair. 
The man`s well-brushed, and the woman looks neat: 
It`s man and woman everywhere! 
Unless, like me, you lie here flat, 
With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife: 
She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat. 
Appearances make the best half of life. 

         IV 

You nice little madam! you know you`re nice. 
I remember hearing a parson say 
You`re a plateful of vanity pepper`d with vice; 
You chap at the gate thinks t` other way. 
On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart: 
There`s a whole week`s wages there figured in gold! 
Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start: 
It`s fun to a fellow who`s getting old. 

         V 

Now, that`s a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers, 
And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard: 
It gives you a house to get in from the showers, 
And food when your appetite jockeys you hard. 
You live a respectable man; but I ask 
If it`s worth the trouble? You use your tools, 
And spend your time, and what`s your task? 
Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools. 

         VI 

You can`t match the colour o` these heath mounds, 
Nor better that peat-fire`s agreeable smell. 
I`m clothed-like with natural sights and sounds; 
To myself I`m in tune: I hope you`re as well. 
You jolly old cot! though you don`t own coal: 
It`s a generous pot that`s boiled with peat. 
Let the Lord Mayor o` London roast oxen whole: 
His smoke, at least, don`t smell so sweet. 

         VII 

I`m not a low Radical, hating the laws, 
Who`d the aristocracy rebuke. 
I talk o` the Lord Mayor o` London because 
I once was on intimate terms with his cook. 
I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps, 
And, Lord, Sir! didn`t I envy his place, 
Till Death knock`d him down with the softest of taps, 
And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face! 

         VIII 

On the contrary, I`m Conservative quite; 
There`s beggars in Scripture `mongst Gentiles and Jews: 
It`s nonsense, trying to set things right, 
For if people will give, why, who`ll refuse? 
That stopping old custom wakes my spleen: 
The poor and the rich both in giving agree: 
Your tight-fisted shopman`s the Radical mean: 
There`s nothing in common `twixt him and me. 

         IX 

He says I`m no use! but I won`t reply. 
You`re lucky not being of use to him! 
On week-days he`s playing at Spider and Fly, 
And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim! 
Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work: 
He nods now and then at the name on his door: 
But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk, 
I think I`m his match: and I`m honest—that`s more. 

         X 

No use! well, I mayn`t be. You ring a pig`s snout, 
And then call the animal glutton! Now, he, 
Mr. Shopman, he`s nought but a pipe and a spout 
Who won`t let the goods o` this world pass free. 
This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop, 
He can`t enjoy! all but cash he hates. 
He`s only a snail that crawls under his shop; 
Though he has got the ear o` the magistrates. 

         XI 

Now, giving and taking`s a proper exchange, 
Like question and answer: you`re both content. 
But buying and selling seems always strange; 
You`re hostile, and that`s the thing that`s meant. 
It`s man against man—you`re almost brutes; 
There`s here no thanks, and there`s there no pride. 
If Charity`s Christian, don`t blame my pursuits, 
I carry a touchstone by which you`re tried. 

         XII 

- `Take it,` says she, `it`s all I`ve got`: 
I remember a girl in London streets: 
She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot, 
My belly was like a lamb that bleats. 
Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized, 
You haven`t a character here, my dear! 
But for making a rascal like me so pleased, 
I`ll give you one, in a better sphere! 

         XIII 

And that`s where it is—she made me feel 
I was a rascal: but people who scorn, 
And tell a poor patch-breech he isn`t genteel, 
Why, they make him kick up—and he treads on a corn. 
It isn`t liking, it`s curst ill-luck, 
Drives half of us into the begging-trade: 
If for taking to water you praise a duck, 
For taking to beer why a man upbraid? 

         XIV 

The sermon`s over: they`re out of the porch, 
And it`s time for me to move a leg; 
But in general people who come from church, 
And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg. 
I`ll wager they`ll all of `em dine to-day! 
I was easy half a minute ago. 
If that isn`t pig that`s baking away, 
May I perish!—we`re never contented—heigho!
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.