Poems
The Dirty Old Man
A LAY OF LEADENHALL.
In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,
His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.
‘T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.
Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.
On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he’d to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,–the Dirt gave its name to them both.
Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust.
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
‘T was a Spiders’ Elysium from cellar to roof.
There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.
From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,–
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.
Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man’s manners were truly delightful.
Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true!–
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.
That room,–forty years since, folk settled and decked it.
The luncheon’s prepared, and the guests are expected,
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
For his love and her friends will be with him today.
With solid and dainty the table is drest,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,
For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.
Full forty years since turned the key in that door.
‘T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city’s uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they’re every one dead.
Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:
But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.
Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;
The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
The old man has played out his part in the scene.
Wherever he now is, I hope he’s more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,
His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.
‘T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,
One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:
The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.
Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.
On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he’d to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus,–the Dirt gave its name to them both.
Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust.
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
‘T was a Spiders’ Elysium from cellar to roof.
There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.
From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,
His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,–
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.
Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;
And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man’s manners were truly delightful.
Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,
To peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told about, none of them true!–
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.
That room,–forty years since, folk settled and decked it.
The luncheon’s prepared, and the guests are expected,
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
For his love and her friends will be with him today.
With solid and dainty the table is drest,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;
Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,
For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.
Full forty years since turned the key in that door.
‘T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city’s uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they’re every one dead.
Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;
The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:
But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse
Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.
Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;
The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
The old man has played out his part in the scene.
Wherever he now is, I hope he’s more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large
hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty
Dick (Dick, for alliteration’s sake, probably), and his place of
business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These
verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.
hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty
Dick (Dick, for alliteration’s sake, probably), and his place of
business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These
verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.
Analysis (ai): The poem explores neglect and psychological stasis, using physical decay as a metaphor for emotional paralysis following loss, diverging from the era’s emphasis on moral uplift and industriousness.
- Narrative Structure: A shift from external satire to internal revelation unfolds in the final stanzas, subverting initial perceptions of the man as merely grotesque and instead revealing grief as the source of his condition.
- Historical Context: Unlike Victorian works that often moralize poverty or cleanliness, this poem resists judgment, presenting squalor not as vice but as symptom, aligning with emerging psychological interests of the late 19th century.
- Form and Meter: Employing anapestic tetrameter with regular rhyme, the poem mimics ballad form but avoids folk simplicity, using rhythm to lull readers before disrupting expectations with its emotional climax.
- Comparative Standing: Compared to Allingham’s nature-focused and lyrically restrained works, this narrative poem is unusually dark and detailed in its social observation, resembling minor gothic influences within his typically pastoral output.
- Less-Discussed Angle: Rather than reading the dirt as mere neglect, the preserved room suggests ritualistic maintenance of a moment in time, indicating not madness but devotion—an act of private commemoration invisible to the outside world.
- Reception and Obscurity: Though not among his most anthologized pieces, this poem stands out in Allingham’s oeuvre for its narrative ambition and psychological depth, foreshadowing modernist interiority while remaining formally traditional.
- Engagement with Modernity: Though pre-20th century, its focus on individual trauma disrupting social norms anticipates modern concerns with mental life beneath surface appearances, particularly the disjuncture between public decorum and private sorrow.
William Allingham (19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889) was an Irish poet, diarist and editor. He wrote several volumes of lyric verse, and his poem “The Faeries” was much anthologised. But he is better known for his posthumously published Diary, in which he records his lively encounters with Tennyson, Carlyle and other writers and artists. His wife, Helen Allingham, was a well-known artist, watercolourist and illustrator.
