In days—not old—a Demon lived,
And a terrible Fiend was he,
For he ground and he ground
All London around,
A huge barrel-organ of hideous sound,
Incessantly!
From morning’s light
Till the deep midnight,
In all sorts of streets and all sorts of squares.
Up the cul-de-sacs—down the thoroughfares,
Where Thames rolls his waters from Greenwich to Kew,
Not a lane could you find that he didn’t go through.
You heard him at all times when most unaware,
In quiet back-parlours up five flights of stair;
When you ate, when you drank, when you read morning prayer,
Or sat dozing awhile in an easy armchair,
Or read a new novel—or talk’d to a friend,
Or endeavour’d to settle accounts without end,
Or when grief (or champagne), caused an ache in your head,
Or you promised yourself to lie latish in bed,
It was all the same
That Demon came,
Grind! grind!
Peace there was none,
Under the sun;
That odious organ never had done.
Sick, sad, or sorry,
No end to the worry.
No sort of grief
Brought the slightest relief;
You might send out to say you were dying or dead,
The organ ground on as if nothing were said!
Grind! grind!
Till you lost your mind.
No use to scold, or draw down the blind,
The fiend only ground more loud and more fast,
Till you had to give him a shilling at last.
So that having tormented you madly that day,
He would surely next morning come round the same way,
And grind and grind—till in frenzy of pain,
You should bribe him once more—just to come back again!

Know ye, my friends, who this Fiend may be?
Here is the key to the mystery—
It is Tubal Cain! who—the Bible says—
Invented organs in very old days,
And for that dread crime, so atrocious and black,
Was sentenced thenceforth to bear one on his back,
A heavier fate (as was justly his due),
Than befell his Papa when poor Abel he slew:
For Cain, killing one man, was let off quite cheap—
Tubal murdered us all—at least “murder’d our sleep.”