H Hampstead! cool oasis!

(No longer 'green,' alas)—

Where once a week, on Sunday,

The Cockneys go to grass;

Where spurs the bold Apprentice

Up the astonish'd ride,

Pursued by mild suggestions

Of room to spare inside;

Where Donkey-boys still flourish,

Unawed by Martin's Act,

The lash that drives a squadron

Promiscuously whackt;—

Upon whose hills the dust-wreath

Comes down like the simoom,

Beneath whose slopes the winkle

Has a perennial bloom,—

And whose once chrystal waters

Present the sort of look

The sea did when the savages

Plunged in for Captain Cook;—

I love thee still!—Tho' tarnish'd

Is ev'ry blade and leaf,

Tho' Highgate Fields are bitterness,

And Belsize Park is grief,—

Tho' Brick-kilns are not lovely,

And Railways banish rest,

And Omnibi are hateful

And Hansom Cabs unblest,—

Tho' Pic-nics take the place of Cows,

Tho' Geese are abdicating,

Tho' Boys usurp the haunts of Fish

And Ice-carts spoil the skating;—

I love thee still!—Thy benches,

When no East wind assails,—

Thy turf, sweet to recline upon—

When unengross'd by snails,—

Oh! never may thy blooming heath

By Wilson be enclosed;

Still on thy lawn let fairy feet

Disport them unopposed;

I love thee, yes I love thee still!—

Yet must I fain confess

That ev'ry time I gaze above

Thy spreading chimney-pots, my love

Grows beautifully less!