Dyers and Vintners, portly, mellow
Chasing the birds of the jetty bill
Through the reed clusters green and still;
And through the osier mazes crept
Many a cap-feathered crook-armed fellow.
III.
The lone Swan's _requiem_ smote the soul
With the reverse of joy.
It spake of sorrow, of outfalls queer,
Dyeing the floods once full and clear;
Of launches wildly galumphing by,
Washing the banks into hollow and hole;
Sometimes afar, and sometimes a-near.
All-marring 'ARRY'S exuberant voice,
With music strange and manifold,
Howling out choruses loud and bold
As when Bank-holidayites rejoice
With concertinas, and the many-holed
Shrill whistle of tin, till the riot is rolled
Through shy backwaters, where swan-nests are;
And greasy scraps of the _Echo_ or _Star_,
Waifs from the cads' oleaginous feeds,
Emitting odours reekingly rank,
Drift under the clumps of the water-weeds,
And broken bottles invade the reeds,
And the wavy swell of the many-barged tug
Breaks, and befouls the green Thames' bank.
And the steady decrease of the snow-plumed throng
That sail the upper Thames reaches among,
Was prophesied in that plaintive song.
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