It is not that painters have spread o’er the scene
A coat of red paint, while the shutters are green;
’Tis not the vile lucre that chokes up the till—
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that Punch, the beloved of my bosom is near,
Making every dear inch of the office more dear;
And which shows how the worst furnished rooms will improve,
When we see the shelves loaded with works that we love.
Sweet office of Punch! oh, how calm could I rest
In thy little back room though for space rather press’d;