There is not in this city an alley so sweet
As the Row, in whose houses the Publishers meet;
Oh the last ray of feeling must bid me farewell,
E’re the books in those houses shall half of them sell.
Yet it was not the volumes that piled up were seen,
On the high shelves of Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green
’Twas not what old Lardner yet labours to fill.
Oh no, it was something more readable still,
’Twas that Whittaker, Baldwin, and Simpkin were there
With cheap useful knowledge that others sold dear;