In the lamplight’s lurid glare.
It’s all right for you that have never
Been aught but what I am now,
In a night cab, in foggy London;
I would rather be yoked to a plough,
Then at least I should be in the open,
And see the fields once more,
And listen to lark and throstle,
Instead of the city’s roar.
I remember they came to break me,