COME INTO "THE GARDEN," MAUD!
A very Ideal Idyl of the (we hope not very remote) Future.
COME into "the Garden," MAUD!
For the Mudford blight is flown;
Come into "the Garden," MAUD!
I am here by the "Hummums" alone;
No garbage stenches are wafted abroad,
And the slime from the pavement's gone.
For a breeze of morning blows,
Yet my hand is not compelled
To hold up my handkerchief close to my nose,
As it had to be always held,
When the shops in the market of old would unclose,
And the cry of the porters swelled.
All night have the suburbs heard
The wheels of the waggons grind;
All night has the driver, with seldom a word,
His horses nodded behind;
And your waggoner is as early a bird
As in Babylon one may find.
I say to myself, "No, there is not one
To block up the street and stay
Till the hum of the City hath well begun."
I chortle in joyaunce gay.
"Now half to the Southern suburbs are gone,
And half to the North. Hooray!
Low on the wood, and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away."
I say, this is better now, goodness knows,
Than it was but a short time syne.
Oho! my Lord Duke, I am glad to suppose
That much of the credit is thine,
And that I need not go softly and hold my nose,
Or feel sick like a man on the brine.
No scent of rank refuse goes into my blood
As I stand in the central hall;
And long in "the Garden" I've strolled and stood,
Without feeling qualmish at all.
And I say, "This is really exceeding good,
An improvement that's far from small."
The paths, roads, and gutters are almost sweet,
And the stodge, like fœtid size,
That used to impede one, and foul one's feet,
No longer offends one's eyes.
'Tis a pleasantish place for two lovers to meet—
Quite an urban paradise.
So, sweetest, most sensitive-nostril'd of girls,
Come hither!—the stenches are gone.
Foul dust blows no more in malodorous whirls,
No cabbage-leaves rot in the sun,
Damp-reek from choked gutter won't straighten your curls,
So come—'twill be really good fun!
Punch, December 16, 1882.
Punch has long been calling attention to the disgraceful condition of Covent Garden Market, but hitherto without the slightest success. The Duke of Bedford appears to totally ignore the fact that property has its duties, as well as its privileges; and it seems probable that even the simplest remedies and improvements on his estate will be neglected, until public attention is drawn to the foul market and its adjacent slums, by the outbreak of some epidemic.
There was another parody of "Come into the Garden, Maud," in Punch, May 23, 1868.