All life is hurry-scurry—toil—trouble, and contentions:
Oh, what an age we live in! with its wonderful inventions!
But yesterday—and granite paved our good old London town,
Now patent wood is all the go—and nothing else goes down,
Excepting horses by the score, yet that's a trifle too—
We only wait perfection in a "horse's patent shoe."
We talk by electricity—we've got an infant "Steam"
Who smokes, and with an iron rod he drives a pretty team,
And a pretty pace he goes! the boy! and a pretty power is his!
Beware, my gentle reader, or he'll flatten out your phiz.