Whether in shady groves we seek retreat,
Or view the Concert bills in Regent-street,
'Twould seem as though the world was gone a-singing—
Green bowers and Opera boxes all are ringing
With strains of melody that pour upon us,
From thrushes, nightingales, and prima Donnas.
The little birds sing treeos in each nook,
And turn over the leaves for want of book;
While operas, scored for twenty kettle-drums
By Costa, sent to pot our tympanums.