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Clare Market

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 in 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 while discretion enjoys--

But here I forbear, for I really despair

Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.

A 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;

And free of the crowd, he admits 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 gloom of the slum

Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;

He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the 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 night, 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 battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,

So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);

And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare

That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.