’Twas not for its rent that the dwelling was dear,
But it wanted no end of repairs every year.
From the roof had been stolen the coating of lead,
And the rain pelted through till it dripped on your head;
And a dark narrow passage, with no space to roam,
Was the hall of my father,—the old house at home.
But now the old house is no dwelling for me;
I’m settled in London, where sooner I’d be;
And ne’er will return there, except as a guest,
Just for two or three days,—if I do, I am blest!