Back to town, and it certes is rapture to stand,

And to hear once again all the roar of the Strand;

I agree with the bard who said, noisy or stilly,

By gaslight or daylight, he loved Piccadilly;

The wanderer's heart with emotion doth swell,

When he sees the broad pavement of pleasant Pall Mall.

Some folks like the City; wherever they range,

Their hearts are still true to the Royal Exchange;

They've beheld alpine summits rise rank upon rank,

But the Matterhorn's nothing compared with the Bank;

And they feel quite rejoiced in the omnibus ride,

As that hearse for the living rolls up through Cheapside.

The mind of a man is expanded by travel,

But give me my house on the Kensington gravel:

The wine of the Frenchman is good, and his grub,

But he isn't devoted to soap and the tub;

Though it may be my prejudice, yet I'll be shot,

If I don't think one Englishman's worth all the lot!

With Germans I've no disposition to quarrel,

Though most of their women resemble a barrel;

And, as for myself, I could never make out

The charms of their schnitzel and raw sauer-kraut;

While everyone owns, since the last mighty war,

Your average Teuton's too bumptious by far.

I think it's been stated before, that you roam

To prove to yourself that there's no place like home,

Though lands that are lovely lie eastward and west,

Our "tight little island," believe me, 's the best;

Through Paris, Berlin, and Vienna you've passed,

To find that there's nothing like London at last!