by James Coplin

Created on: November 15, 2009

The Night Watch

Night fog makes for mouldy leathers and creaking, rust flaked mail. Narrow alleys in wet weather smell of fish heads, slops and scales. Wheezing cough and caked on clay and a Shilling are the pay of the Night Watch.

Bad gin makes for wicked humours and a blackness in the brain - spreading fast as rats and rumors in the squalor of Death Lane. Blacklung Alley and the Quay hide the gallows lawful prey from the Night Watch.

Boot-steps echo on the cobbles as we cross West Temple Square, From our path the cripples hobble while the slatterns turn and stare. Lurking beggar, prowling thief find rough handling and grief by the Night Watch.

From the Dark Fall to the Cock's Crow we patrol our footsore way - till the shouting from the windows mark the coming of the day. Then we shoulder up our Bills and leave the City's ills to the Day Watch.

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