Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle br Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), br You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle br Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night; br Though day be dreary and night be wet, br You will find a ceaseless concourse met; br Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle, br And now and again their Fife fists fight. br br Often here the voice of the crier br Heralds a sale in the City Hall, br And slowly but surely drawing nigher br Is heard the baker's bugle call. br The baker halts where the two ways meet, br And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet br That with breath of bellows and heart of fire br He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall. br br And on Saturday night just after eleven, br When the taverns have closed a moment ago, br The vocal efforts of six or seven br Make the corner a place of woe. br For the time is fitful, the notes are queer, br And it sounds to him who dwelleth near br Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven br By orphan cats who are left below. br br Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning, br Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew, br Hearken to me and receive my warning: br Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few br And most of them troubled with rat or mouse, br Never take rooms in a corner house; br Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning br Shall be for a portion unto you.