COCKNEY AND CORYDON. 



CORYDON. 



MARCH ! march ! Bread-street, and Cannon -street, 



Alderman bury, march forward in state ! 

 March Austin Friars ! while crooked Threadneedle- street, 



Limps on her crutches thro' Temple-bar gate ! 



Come from the land of the brick manufactories ! 



Piled, like old Babylon, street over square ! 

 Fly from the scene, where Old Nick the chief actor is I 



From the Jews of St. James's, and eke of Rag Fair ! 



March from your Mansion House, lord of the city ! 



Start for the country, ye lovers of fun ! 

 Up, Gog and Magog, for once 'twere a pity 



To live all your lives without seeing the sun ! 



Oh ! think, gentle Cockney, how lovely the roses, 

 And violets, and lilies, that perfume the air ! 



Oh ! rusticate instantly follow your noses 



Through Highgate and Hampstead cut Finsbury- square ! 



Think, think, of the moonbeam that sleeps on the river, 

 Of the rock, and the ocean, the mountain, and dell 



Of the foliage so bright, and the aspens that quiver, 

 And the fountain that plays in its own mossy cell ! 



Oh ! think of these loveable sentimentalities ! 



Your convict-like drudging must make a man spare ; 

 Then quit the base scene of life's sordid realities 



Haste, haste to our hills and vales try the fresh air 1 



COCKNEY. 



Truce, truce to your dreaming ! you move but my pity, 

 Grave Magog e'en laughs, till he's heard by St. Paul : 



'Tis the gas, not the moon, that enlightens the city, 

 D'ye think your Dame Nature could build our Guildhall ? 



Lord love your fine sentiment ! Utilitarians 

 Can't admit such false maxims on any pretence, 



With Maculloch, and Mill, so completely at variance ; 

 All sense is Utility ! give me the pence ! 



Saving only to painters, and poets, and dreamers, 

 Your rocks are a nuisance that every one blames ; 



Say what were your rivers, deprived of our steamers ? 

 And what is your ocean, compared with our Thames? 



