Know ye that Smithfield, abounding in kine,
Where the dirt ever blossoms, and beams never shine?
Know ye the land where their coffee is beans?
Their milk chalk and brains, and their tea is but greens,
Where they polish their apples and all other fruit,
And the voice of the muffin-man never is mute?
Where the tints of your nose and the chimney-pot high,
In colour not varied with blackness may vie,
And the soot that falls on you is deepest in dye?
’Tis the town of the North, and of great Exhibitions,