The Mudlarks

He crept on out of the ginnel, and

He whispered: ‘Follow me,

The tide is down in the river, so

We’ll see what we can see.

We might pick up a penny or two,

A bundle of fishing twine,

Or maybe even a sovereign, Nat,

But if we do, it’s mine!’

 

Young Godby, he was a Mudlark,

He was only eight or nine,

But he’d been foraging through the mud

Since 1869,

His Dad had gone with a steamer

All the way down to the Cape,

But if you looked at his mother,

You could see, he’d just escaped.

 

So Godby went on a daily sludge

Each time that the tide was out,

Out where the Thames receded when

His Mother began to shout,

He told me that he would show me

All the tricks to find the gilt,

Buried beneath the slimy mud

And deep down in the silt.

 

He wasn’t the only Mudlark there

We passed by Mary Ann,

She was covered in mud, but grinned,

She’d found a frying pan,

We traipsed out further toward the stream

That lapped beside the mud,

‘This is the place you find the stuff,

It’s mucky, but it’s good!’

 

I picked up a box and wiped it off,

He said, ‘Hey, that’s Japanned,

You’ll probably get a bob for that

If you take it to Wheezy Dan.’

He dug around and he found some brass

And some copper fender ware,

He said, ‘You ‘elp me carry it back,

And whatever I get, I’ll share!’

 

The sun was down, it was almost dusk

And the cold, so cold it hurt,

Suddenly Godby tripped and fell

His foot caught up in a skirt,

The woman lay buried in slimy mud

Her face as black as pitch,

‘Here’s one,’ he said, ‘has slung her ‘ook,

Has jumped off London Bridge!’

 

He said he’d seen them a lot before

So he didn’t appear upset,

‘You get what yer can,’ he said to me

As he fumbled around her neck,

He pulled off a tiny golden chain

With a locket, covered in mud,

Then fumbled around for her hands, I said,

‘I don’t really think you should!’

 

He took two rings from her fingers, but

The third it was on too tight,

He strained, and snapped off the finger,

Took the ring on that dreadful night,

I never went back to the river bank,

To me, the place was cursed,

For there in the locket, a tiny snap

Of her, and my Uncle Perce!

 

David Lewis Paget

 

Reviews

[Veronica Chandler]

The wisdom and surprise in your poems never disappoints; they always bring me right into the center of the drama. The way you have with your words seem to lull me in and then just when I am in a groove the piece takes a twist that never fails to shock and amaze. No matter how often I read you I am never prepared for where your mind will take me. Another gem in your bursting treasure chest of works.

[Robert James Parfett]

Another gripping and masterfully told tale. I love beachcombing and fumbling about hoping to find things, but I'm glad I'm glad I'm not a Mudlark!

[Dhaye]

So sad... but I was again amazed by the twist at the end...

Another amazing narrative poetry. Thanks, Sir David. I am a fan of your narrative poetry here. :)

[quinfinn]

you have far too much time on your hands. you come out with the most engaging and usually riveting stories in perfect prose form. well done, david!

[Marie]

I wasn't sure what the mudlarks were; now I know. A really neat ending.

[Emerald Seas]

Where do you come up with these stories, David? Well crafted, of course. This one is so sad and tragic.