The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

269
And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal MartyrDom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
'Tis said her little Lamas since
Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.
ETERNAL LONDON.
THOMAS MOORE.
And is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision!
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Appenines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.
If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear--
The Funds--(phew, curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast--(what! higher still?)--
And--(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)--
Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"
Go where we may--rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still,
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch--
And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH--
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And if this rage for traveling lasts,