The rain is done, each carriage ope, and each umbrella fold,
And now to see how London shines as bright as molten gold.
Night sinks upon that multitude, that roaring surging sea,
Night that in London never was and ne’er again shall be.
From Westminster to Islington, from Lord’s to Ratcliffe Way,
That time of slumber is as bright and busy as the day:
For swift to East and swift to West the glaring joy-flame spread.
High on Victoria tower it shone, on the New River Head,
In pleasant Kent, in Essex dull, and each surrounding shire
The semi-bumpkins gaped and grinned to mark each point of fire.