Where we can rest in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed round English face
Popping up near to break the vision?
’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;
Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.
If up the Simplon’s path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear