OH, London is the place for all
In love with loco-motion!
Still to and fro the people go
Like billows of the ocean;
Machine or man, or caravan,
Can all be had for paying,
When great estates, or heavy weights,
Or bodies want conveying.
There’s always hacks about in packs,
Wherein you may be shaken,
And Jarvis is not always drunk,
Tho’ always overtaken;
In racing tricks he’ll never mix,
His nags are in their last days,
And slow to go, altho’ they show
As if they had their fast days!
Then if you like a single horse,
This age is quite a cab-age,
A car not quite so small and light
As those of our Queen Mab age;
The horses have been broken well,
All danger is rescinded,
For some have broken both their knees,
And some are broken winded.
If you’ve a friend at Chelsea end,
The stages are worth knowing—
There is a sort, we call ’em short,
Although the longest going—
For some will stop at Hatchett’s shop
Till you grow faint and sicky,
Perched up behind, at last to find
Your dinner is all dickey!
Long stages run from every yard;
But if you’re wise and frugal,
You’ll never go with any Guard
That plays upon the bugle,
“Ye banks and braes,” and other lays,
And ditties everlasting,
Like miners going all your way,
With boring and with blasting.
Instead of journeys, people now
May go upon a Gurney,
With steam to do the horses’ work,
By powers of attorney;
Tho’ with a load it may explode,
And you may all be un-done!
And find you’re going up to Heav’n,
Instead of up to London!
To speak of every kind of coach,
It is not my intention;
But there is still one vehicle
Deserves a little mention;
The world a sage has called a stage,
With all its living lumber,
And Malthus swears it always bears
Above the proper number.
The law will transfer house or land
For ever and a day hence,
For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,
You’ll never want conveyance:
Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief!
It is no sight for laughter—
Away it goes, and leaves my nose
To join in running after.