A Day Poem by William Hutton

TO DR. WITHERING; WHO ENQUIRED HOW I SPENT MY TIME


So much one day is like another,
It might be taken for its brother.

At six o'clock I raise the head;
Toss the warm covering off the bed;
Dress; and, if thoughts sprung in the night,
Distinguish them in black and white;
Survey the skies with half a scowl,
And prophesy if fair or foul;
Then to my girl I softly creep,
To steel a kiss while she's asleep;
For when the foot but lightly moves,
We stand a chance to win the gloves.

My hat put on, I quit the door;
Attempt to walk two miles, or more:
Animal powers now set a-going,
The mental spirits sets a-flowing;
Which orderly begin to chime,
Ending in measure, tipp'd with rhyme.

At Birmingham I meet my boy;
But never meet him without joy;
For life to melancholy tends
Were we to live without our friends;
Nay, if to solitude we give,
How can we then be said to live?

Thoughts of the pen are now laid by;
On paper only cast an eye--
''Twill suit you, Sir, to buy this lot;
The best, and cheapest sort we've got.'
'Nay, Sir, it will my warehouse fill;'
'Not it; take all; pay when you will.'

My glasses, news-papers, and I late,
Enter the parlour to be private--
'Let's see what Statesmen are contriving;
How the politic nags they're driving.'
But how can I men's actions view,
Who know so little what they do?

My joyous breakfast comes at last in,
I relish like a ploughman fasting:
Chat with all comers on each head;
But, after all, there's nothing said;
Till Molly finishes, debates,
Opens with, 'Sir, the dinner waits.'
Who would not enter with all his heart,
To taste plumb-pudding, pye, or dessert.
Let me to these sweet dishes join,
And you, my friend, may take sirloin.

Nought now remains (the floor well trod)
But warm my shins, or take a nod;
Till gloves are on, hat o'er the eye--
''Tis striking five--and so good by.'

The bulky town recedes from view;
I meet with bows, and how-d'ye do.
Miss Rain and I each other chase;
We're often found in close embrace;
Though fair without, and pure within,
'I duna like her tuch ma skin.'

When Aston steeple strikes the eye,
It steals for her I lov'd a sigh;
An intercourse now lost I mourn;
How to forget could never learn.

One mile walk'd o'er, the traveller sees
My little cot peep throgh the trees.
Dear cot! for thirty years inclin'd
To furnish me with peace of mind;
Which ne'er gave anxious thought or sigh
Until the fourteenth of July;
Reduc'd to ashes by ill men,
But from her ashes rose agen.

Hid from the world, from care, from din,
I cast a pleasing look within.
There I, with truth it may be said,
Write for the living--wake the dead;
Converse with those who liv'd of yore,
And feed on what they fed before.
Transaction at command appears,
Bring back to view a thousand years.

Now, in heroic verse, we'll state,
At that sound when I pass my gate,
Bounces old Cerb'rus from his bed,
Not grac'd with three, but with one head;
Bullies in thund'ring strains about,
Resolv'd to keep invaders out,
But instant finding who I am,
Converts the monster to the lamb;
Smiles at me with that mouth and eye,
Rais'd the past moment to destroy;
Makes his tremendous jaws expand,
And gently leads me by the hand.
Severity might give him blows;
Humanity the pat bestows.

The birds my little grove retain,
Welcome me with their pleasing strain;
In gratitude they sing their best,
Because they hold a peaceful nest;
For neither nest nor bird, have been
Disturb'd since first my grove was seen,
A place, perhaps, by right divine,
As much their freehold as 'tis mine;
And as we both are now possessors,
May both bequeath it our successors.
Nor shall it in the frost be said
I e'er with-held a crumb of bread.

My pair of greys, the Muse engage,
Who, in my service see old age;
They hear my voice, they make no stand,
But take the bread from Master's hand;
Perceiving an exhausted store,
Lovingly follow me for more;
I turn, which their dull footstep checks--
'So, my poor lads,' and pat their necks.
They never knew a treatment harsh;
Strangers to want as to the lash.

I meet my servants, growing old,
But never meet them with a scold.
My equals in an eye Divine--
Why not my equals then in mine?

Puss cocks her tail, begins to crawl,
And rubs her side against the wall.
She ne'er, in all her life, has spoke,
Or she would say, 'Give me a stroke.'

But what that pleasure can surpass
When my girl sees me through the glass?
Rises to meet me, while the joy
Takes full possession of her eye?
Where is the man that could look glum
Who sees the best of women come?
Whatever comfort age can find,
Lies in the storehouse of her mind.

Now garden, converse, book, or pen,
Tea, supper, music, please till ten;
When the bell rings 'to bring a light,'
I rise, and burrow for the night.

Of blessings can I wish for more?
They amply satisfy fourscore.
Thus I enjoy, others partaking,
A little heaven of my making.