In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there,
That I take a delight, on a Saturday night,
In walking that way and viewing the sight;
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please—
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore which discretion enjoys—
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare!
The rich man comes down from the elegant town,
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
Once free from the crowd, he admits that he is proud
That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed—
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,
And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the neighboring slum
Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;
He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and pies
And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise
At the goodies they vend and the toys without end—
And it's oh if he had but a penny to spend!
But alas! he must gaze in a hopeless amaze
At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze—
What sense of despair in this world can compare
With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday nights, when my custom invites
A stroll in old London for curious sights,
I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array,
The things which some eyes would appear to despise
Impress me as pathos in homely disguise,
And my tattered waif friend shall have pennies to spend,
As long as I've got 'em (or friends that will lend);
And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare
That there's beauty and good in that marketplace there!