And London no longer is gay.
To Perth, to Penzance, and to Dover
(For Paris) all hurry away.
There’s scarce a soul left in this hot land,
For all the world now, and his spouse,
If not making tracks up to Scotland,
Pretend to be yachting at Cowes.
Whilst mothers whose ill-fated daughters
Strove vainly for husbands in town,
Are seeking, in Cheltenham waters,