The Pride of England.
Know ye the Inn where the laurel and myrtle
Well emblem the green who are done ’neath its sign?
Where they serve you on plate which is mock as their turtle,
Now fleecing the tourist, now maddening the Times?
Know ye the shams of that ill-managed house,
Where the host ever bows, and the bills ever chouse;
Where the “wax-lights” that don’t half illumine your room
Give a muttonish rather than waxy perfume;
Where although you don’t see half a waiter all day,