But the rural's a dose as wants mixing, it won't do to swaller it neat;
That's wy the Haristos and 'Arry, and all as is fly to wot's wot,
Likes passing the season in London, in spite of yer poetry rot.
Country's all jolly fine in the autumn, with plenty of killing about—
Day's rabbitin's not a bad barney, and gull-potting's lummy, no doubt;
But green fields with nothink to slorter, no pubs, no theaytres, no gas!—
No, no, it won't wash, and the muggins as tells yer it will is a hass.
But May in "the village," my biffin, the mighty metrolopus,—ah!
That's paradise, sir, and no kid, with a dash of the true lah-di-dah.
Covent Garden licks Eden, I reckon, at least it'll do me A 1;