There sits a man near Sadler's Wells,
Whose limb-excited peal of bells
Disuse will never moulder:
Each elbow, by a skilful twist,
Rings one, one rings from either wrist,
And one from either shoulder.

Each foot, bell-mounted, aids the din;
Each knee, with nodding bell, chimes in
Its phil-harmonic clapper.
One bell sends forth a louder note
From that round ball which tops the throat;
By bruisers called the napper.

Thus, sightless, by the river side
He tunes his lays, like him who cried
" Descend from heaven, Urania, "
But not as poor: his wiser stave
Is, like the laureat's, mere God save
The King — not Rule Britannia.

Though but a single tune he knows,
His gains are far exceeding those
Of pass-supported Homer:
He keeps the wolf outside the door,
And, doing that, to call him poor
Were, certes, a misnomer.

The school-boy lags astride the rail,
The milkman drops his clinking pail,
The serving-maid her pitcher;
The painter quits th' unwhiten'd fence,
To greet with tributary pence
This general bewitcher.

See! where he nods his pealing brow,
Now strikes a fifth, a second now,
In regular confusion;
But, ere he finishes the strain,
Da capo goes his pate again,
The key-note of conclusion.

Satire, suspend your baseless wit,
The tuneful tribe may sometimes hit,
On patrons bent on giving.
Here's one, at least, obscurely bred,
Who by the labour of his head
Picks up a decent living!