With Dickens

In Windsor Terrace, number four,     Ive taken my abode,     A little crescent from the street,     A bight from City Road;     And, hard up and in exile, I     To many fancies yield;     For it was here Micawber lived     And David Copperfield.     A bed, a table, and a chair,     A bottle and a cup.     The landlords waiting even now     For something to turn up.     The landlady is spiritless,     They both seem tired of life;     They cannot fight the battle like     Micawber and his wife.     But in the little open space     That lies back from the street,     The same old ancient, shabby clerk     Is sitting on a seat.     The same sad characters go by,     The ragged children play,     And things have very little changed     Since Dickens passed away.     Some seek religion in their grief,     And some for friendship yearn;     Some fly to liquor for relief,     But I to Dickens turn.     I find him ever fresh and new,     His lesson ever plain;     And every line that Dickens wrote     Ive read and read again.     The taverns just across the wye,     And frowsy women there     Are gossiping and drinking gin,     And twisting up their hair.     And grubby girls go past at times,     And furtive gentry lurk,     I dont think anyone has died     Since Dickens did his work.     Theres Jingle, Tigg, and Chevy Slyme,     And Weevle, whom you will;     And hard-up virtue proudly slinks     Into the pawnshop still.     Go east a bit from City Road,     And all the rest are there,     A friendly whistle might produce     A Chicken anywhere.     My favourite authors heroes I     Should love, but somehow cant.     I dont like David Copperfield     As much as Davids Aunt,     And it may be because my mind     Has been in many fogs,     I dont like Nicholas Nickleby     So well as Newman Noggs.     I dont like Richard Carstone, Pip,     Or Martin Chuzzlewit,     And for the rich and fatherly     I scarcely care a bit.     The honest, sober clods are bores     Who cannot suffer much,     And with the Esther Summersons     I never was in touch.     The Charleys and the haggard wives,     Kind hearts in poverty,     And yes! the Lizzie Hexams, too,     Are very near to me;     But men like Brothers Cheeryble,     And Madeline Bray divine,     And Nell, and Little Dorrit live     In a better world than mine.     The Nicklebys and Copperfields,     They do not stand the test;     And in my heart I dont believe     That Dickens loved them best.     I cant admire their ways and talk,     I do not like their looks,     Those selfish, injured sticks that stalk     Through all the Masters books.     Theyre mostly selfish in their love,     And selfish in their hate,     They marry Dora Spenlows, too,     While Agnes Wickfields wait;     And back they come to poor Tom Pinch     When hard-up for a friend;     They come to wrecks like Newman Nogga     To help them in the end.     And, well, maybe I am unjust,     And maybe I forget;     Some of us marry dolls and jilt     Our Agnes Wickfields yet.     We seek our friends when fortune frowns,     It has been ever thus,     And we neglect Joe Gargery     When fortune smiles on us.     They get some rich old grandfather     Or aunt to see them through,     And you can trace self-interest     In nearly all they do.     And scoundrels like Ralph Nickleby,     In spite of all their crimes,     And crawlers like Uriah Heep     Told bitter truths at times.     But, yes, I love the vagabonds     And failures from the ranks,     And hard old files with hidden hearts     Like Wemmick and like Pancks.     And Jaggers had his poor dreams, too,     And fond hopes like the rest,     But, somehow, somehow, all my life     Ive loved Dick Swiveller best!     But, let us peep at Snagsby first     As softly he lays down     Beside the bed of dying Joe     Another half-a-crown.     And Nemos wretched pauper grave,     But we can let them be,     For Joe has said to Heaven: They     Wos werry good to me.     And Wemmick with his aged P, ,     No doubt has his reward;     And Jaggers, hardest nut of all,     Will be judged by the Lord.     And Pancks, the rent-collecting screw,     With laurels on his brow,     Is loved by all the bleeding hearts     In Bleeding Heart Yard now.     Tom Pinch is very happy now,     And Magwitch is at rest,     And Newman Noggs again might hold     His head up with the best;     Micawber, too, when all is said,     Drank bravely Sorrows cup,     Micawber worked to right them all,     And something did turn up.     How do John Edward Nandy, Sir!     And Plornish get along?     Why! if the old man is in voice     Well hear him pipe a song.     Well have a look at Baptiste, too,     While still the night is young,     With Mrs. Plornish to explain     In the Italian tongue.     Before we go well ask about     Poor young John Chivery:     There never was a gentleman     In all his family.     His hopeless love, his broken heart,     But to his rival true;     He came of Natures gentlemen,     But young John never knew.     Well pass the little midshipman     With heart that swells and fills,     Where Captain Edard Cuttle waits     For Walr and Sol Gills.     Jack Bunsby stands by what he says     (Which isnt very clear),     And Toots with his own hopeless love,     As true as any here.     And who that read has never felt     The sorrow that it cost     When Captain Cuttle read the news     The Son and Heir was lost?     And who that read has not rejoiced     With him and Hearts Delight,     And felt as Captain Cuttle felt     When Walr came that night?     And yonder, with a broken heart,     That people thought was stone,     Deserted in his ruined home,     Poor Dombey sits alone.     Who has not gulped a something down,     Whose eye has not grown dim     While feeling glad for Dombeys sake     When Florence came to him?     (A stately house in Lincolnshire,     The scene is bleak and cold,     The footsteps on the terrace sound     To-night at Chesney Wold.     One who loved honour, wife, and truth,     If nothing else besides,     Along the dreary Avenue     Sir Leicester Dedlock rides.)     Well go round by Poll Sweedlepipes,     The bird and barber shop;     If Sairey Gamp is so dispoged     Well send her up a drop.     Well cross High Holborn to the Bull,     And, if he cares to come,     By streets that are not closed to him     Well see Dick Swiveller home.     Hes looking rather glum to-night,     The why I will not ask,     No matter how we act the goat,     We mostly wear a mask.     Some wear a mask to hide the false     (And some the good and true),     I wouldnt be surprised to know     Mark Tapley wore one too.     We wear a mask called cheerfulness     While feeling sad inside;     And men like Dombey, who was shy,     Oft wear a mask called pride.     A front of pure benevolence     The grinding Patriarch bore;     And kind men often wear a mask     Like that which Jaggers wore.     But, never mind, Dick Swiveller!     Well see it out together     Beneath the wing of friendship, Dick,     That never moults a feather.     Well look upon the rosy yet     Full many a night, old friend,     And tread the mazy ere we woo     The balmy in the end.     Our palace walls are rather bare,     The floor is somewhat damp,     But, while theres liquor, anywhere     Is good enough to camp.     What ho! mine host! bring forth thine ale     And let the board be spread!,     It is the hour when churchyards yawn     And wine goes to the head.     Twas you who saved poor Kit, old chap,     When he was in a mess,     But, what ho! Varlet! bring us wine!     Heres to the Marchioness!     Well make a scholar of her yet,     Shell be a lady fair,     And she shall go in silk attire     And siller have to spare.     From sport to sport they hurry her     To banish her regrets,     And when we win a smile from her     We cannot pay our debts!     Left orphans at a tender age,     Were happiest in the land,     Were Glorious Apollos, Dick,     And youre Perpetual Grand!     Youre king of all philosophers,     And let the Godly rust;     Heres to the obscure citizen     Who sent the beer on trust?     It sure would be a cheerful world     If never man got tight;     You spent your money on your friends,     Dick Swiveller! Good night!     A dissolute and careless man,     An idle, drunken path;     But see where Sidney Carton spills     His last drink on the hearth!     A ruined life! He lived for drink     And but one thing beside,     And Oh! it was a glorious death     That Sidney Carton died.     And Which I meantersay is Pip,     The voices hurry past,     Not to deceive you, sir, Stand by!     Awast, my lass, awast!     Beware of widders, Samivel,     And shun strong drink, my friend;     And, not to put too fine a point     Upon it, I must end.