Has saved you the walk from the bridge to the door.
We swear it’s a do! for the beer that we tasted
At Erith was muddy, and acid, and dead;
Her fields are all bare, and her gardens are wasted,
And boots get in chalk at each step that you tread.
No, Erith,—though snobbish the Gravesend refection,
Though the “Whittington” shop boys call polks in the hall,
Though its obstinate poultry resists one’s digestion,
Your fare, fêtes, and fun, are more dreary than all.
From The Man in the Moon, Volume 2.