Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain, Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid, And the rich summer dinner-tables laid. Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease, Seats of my youth when every card could please, How often have I done thy park so green Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene; How often have I paused the throng to tell, Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell, The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill, The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill, The moving row with spots beneath the shade For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made: How often have I blest the late-born day, When play remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village swells from dinner free, Led up the sports that fashion loves to see, While much flirtation circled in the shade, The young ones spooning as the old surveyed, And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground, And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round; And still as each repeated partner tired, Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired. The dancing man, who simply sought renown By leading all the cotillons in town, The swain mistrustful of his smutty face, While secret riddles tittered round the place, The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love, The chaperons who would those looks reprove, These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these With sweet succession taught e’en town to please, These round thy bowers their genial influence shed, These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn, Within thy doors upholsterers are seen, And water-carts alone the park keep green; Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain, Of all thy people none with thee remain. No more thy babbling talk reflects the day, But in the country winds its shallow way; Along thy park a solitary guest, A sole policeman now laments the rest, Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils, Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils; Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all, And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball, And trembling, lest they last should join the band, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, Where working men increase and swells decay, Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade, Hardy may make them as Walpole has made, But fashionable swells, their country’s pride, Once out of town can never be supplied. _The Tomahawk_, September 7, 1867. ―――― The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of _The Mirror_: