Who but for Porridge Island sheds a tear,
Its sav’ry steam’s to ev’ry nose a loss!
Shops in arcades to buyers may be dear!
But will they give us back one golden cross?
All is changed round where King Charles the First
Rears his dark motionless Equestrian phiz;
That, could he speak, he’d say, “May I be curst
If my poor girthless steed knows where he is!”
Water in wooden pipes, ran under ground,
They’re iron now, and fire runs by their side;