Thou rattling, rambling, two-horse caravan!
Thou dry-land ship, breasting in scorn the waves
Of traffic’s whirlpool that round Cheapside raves.
Behind thee, competition lies,
And jealousy but breathes a curse and dies.
Poor Francis Train just hissed at thee his spite,
Then, with his ‘Tramways’ sank in endless night;
And jobbing railways, near thy presence found,
Smitten with shame, hide, fuming ‘Under-ground.’
Though trampled curs may curse thee with a bark,