Whene’er abroad we take our walks,
And choose the Covent Garden route,
We ask, “Do dukes like cabbage-stalks?
And are they fond of rotten fruit?”
We see the garbage piled on high,
We sniff an air whose odour tells
Of rank corruption; and we sigh,
“No doubt the duke approves of smells!”
We pick our way through filth and slime,
And, musing on the noisome flood,