What, if Green's Nassau balloon (Ere its voyage to the moon) 'Twixt Vauxhall and Stepney plies, Straining London's million eyes, Dropping on the breezes bland, (Good for gazers,) bags of sand; Green's a blacksmith to a belle, To Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l. Great magician of the Tunnel! Earth bows down before thy funnel, Darting on through swamp and crag, Faster than a Gaul can brag; All Newmarket's tip-top speed, To thy stud is broken-knee'd; Zephyr spavin'd, lightning slow, To thy fiery rush below. Ships no more shall trust to sails, Boats no more be swamp'd by whales, Sailors sink no more in barks, (Built by contract with the sharks,) Though the tempest o'er us roar; Flying through thy Tunnel's bore, What care we for mount or main, What can stop the Monster-Train? There let Murchison and Lyell Of our Tunnel make the trial. We shall make them cross the Line, Fifty miles below the brine-- Leaving blockheads to discuss Paving-stones with Swiss or Russ, Or in some Cathedral stall, Still to play their cup and ball. What, if rushes the Great Western Rapid as a racer's pastern, At each paddle's thundering stroke, Blackening hemispheres with smoke, Bouncing like a soda-cork; Raising consols in New York, E'er the lie has time to cool, Forged in bustling Liverpool. Yet, a river to a runnel, To the steamer is the Tunnel; Screw and sail alike shall lag, To the "Rumour" in thy bag. While _she_ puffs to make the land, Thou shalt have the Stock in hand, Smashing bill-broker and banker Days, before she drops her anchor. Then, if England has a foe, We shall rout him from below. Through our Ocean tunnel's arch, Shall the bold battalions march, Piled upon our flying waggons, Spouting fire and smoke like dragons; Sweeping on, like shooting-stars, Guardsmen, rifles, and hussars. We shall _tunnelize_ the Poles, Bringing down the cost of coals; Making Yankees sell their ice At a Christian sort of price; Making China's long-tail'd Khan Sell his Congo as he can, In our world of fire and shade, Carrying on earth's grand "Free Trade." We shall bore the broad Atlantic, Making every grampus frantic; Killing Jonathan with spite, As the Train shoots up to light. Mexico her hands shall clap, Tahiti throw up her cap, Till the globe one shout shall swell To Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l.