Plunged at one bound through Temple Bar.
The courser’s fleetness seems to mock
The slowness of St. Dunstan’s Clock.
Away, away, we madly whisk
Along! past Waithman’s Obelisk!
On, on we go, we gallop still
Up Ludgate’s gently rising hill.
A moment now our way seems barr’d,
Oh! shall we stop at last?
’Tis the barrier at St. Paul’s Church Yard—