No wonder, young Pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter,

She smiles on her poet, whose heart’s in a canter!

Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,

He envies them both,—he’s an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I such a bride, with a slave at my feet,

I would choose me a house in my favourite street;

Yes or no—I would carry my point, willy-nilly:

If “no,”—pick a quarrel; if “yes”—Piccadilly!

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago,