“Deposit’s” cake, and stink, and make
The Lass of Richmond ill!
How happy might that maiden be
If sweet Thames-tide might run.
But no; Conservators agree
That “Nothing can be done.”
Lips she must close, must nip her nose,—
The Stench-fiend lords it still,
And laughs with glee—grim ghoul—to see
The Lass of Richmond ill!