’Twas on the day when city dames repair To take their weekly dose of Hyde Park air; When forth we trot: no carts the road infest, For still on Sundays country horses rest. Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen; Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham Green: That Turnham Green which dainty pigeons fed, But feeds no more, for Solomon is dead. Three dusty miles reach Brentford’s tedious town, For dirty streets and white-legg’d chickens known: Thence o’er wide shrubby heaths and furrow’d lanes We come, where Thames divides the meads of Staines. We ferry’d o’er; for late the winter’s flood Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood. Prepar’d for war, now Bagshot Heath we cross, Where broken gamesters oft repair their loss. At Hartley Row the foaming bit we prest, While the fat landlord welcom’d ev’ry guest. Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown’d, Our host extolled his wine at ev’ry round, Relates the Justices’ late meeting there, How many bottles drank, and what their cheer; What lords had been his guests in days of yore, And praised their wisdom much, their drinking more. * * * * * Let travellers the morning’s vigils keep: The morning rose, but we lay fast asleep. Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry sun, And Popham Lane was scarce in sight by one; The straggling village harbour’d thieves of old, ’Twas here the stage-coach’d lass resigned her gold; That gold which had in London purchas’d gowns, And sent her home, a belle, to country towns. But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood; Here unnamed infants find their daily food; For should the maiden mother nurse her son, ’Twould spoil her match, when her good name is gone. Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore, Nor fail’d her breast to suckle nineteen more. Be just, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear, Be virgins still in towns, but mothers here. Sutton we pass; and leave her spacious down, And with the setting sun reach Stockbridge town. O’er our parch’d tongues the rich metheglin glides, And the red dainty trout our knife divides. Sad melancholy ev’ry visage wears; What! no election come in seven long years! Of all our race of Mayors, shall Snow alone Be by Sir Richard’s dedication known? Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float, Nor cobblers feast three years upon one vote. * * * * *