The dear old street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still smacks of William’s pungent squibs,
And Gilray’s fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice; the wit, the bile,
The hate of Whigs and Tories.
At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;