Obtains the tribute of their eighteen pence.
Their cakes, their ale, brought by a tidy maid,
The place of venison and champagne supply:
And cocks and hens are clipp’d from yew-tree shade,
That meet their taste for rural scenery.
For who, in Nature’s favourite month of June,
Seeks not the velvet of some verdant sod?
Feels the warm ray of Sunday afternoon,
Nor casts one restless, roving look abroad?
Tax’d carts unnumber’d roll through Bethnal Green,