T was the huge metropolis

With fog was like to choke;

It was the gentle cabby—

horse

His ancient knees that

broke;—

And, oh, it was the cabby-man

That swore from ear to ear,

And did vituperate his eyes

Considerably severe,

If any swell should make him stir

Another step that year!

Then up and spake that bold cabman,

Unto his inside Fare,—

"I say, you Sir,—come out of that!—

"I say, you Sir in there—

"Six precious aggrawatin miles

"I've druv to this here gate,

"And that poor injer'd hanimal

"Is in a faintin state;

"There aint a thimblefull of shine,

"The fog's as black as pitch,—

"I'm flummox'd'tween them posteses

"And that most 'ateful ditch.

"So bundle out! my'oss is beat;

"I'm sick of this'ere night;—

I say, you Sir in there,—hear?——

He's bolted—blow me tight!"