They bid me note the mountains high,
Whose snow-capp'd peaks my prospect end;
I only heave a secret sigh—
To Ludgate Hill my wishes tend.
They taunt me with our denser air,
And fogs so thick you scarce can see;
Then, yellow fog, I will declare,
Though strange to say, I long for thee.
And everything in this bright clime
But serves to turn my thoughts to thee!