T the brink of a murmuring brook

A contemplative Cockney reclined;

And his face wore a sad sort of look,

As if care were at work on his mind.

He sigh'd now and then as we sigh

When the heart with soft sentiment

swells;

And a tear came and moisten'd each eye

As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.

I am monarch of all I survey!

(Thus he vented his feelings in words)—

But my kingdom, it grieves me to say,

Is inhabited chiefly by birds.

In this brook that flows lazily by

I believe that one tittlebat dwells,

For I saw something jump at a fly

As I lay here and long'd for Bow Bells.

Yonder cattle are grazing—it's clear

From the bob of their heads up and down;—

But I cannot love cattle down here

As I should if I met them in town.

Poets say that each pastoral breeze

Bears a melody laden with spells;

But I don't find the music in these

That I find in the tone of Bow Bells.

I am partial to trees, as a rule;

And the rose is a beautiful flower.

(Yes, I once read a ballad at school

Of a rose that was wash'd in a shower.)

But, although I may doat on the rose,

I can scarcely believe that it smells

Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows

As when sold within sound of Bow Bells.

No; I've tried it in vain once or twice,

And I've thoroughly made up my mind

That the country is all very nice—

But I'd much rather mix with my kind.

Yes; to-day—if I meet with a train—

I will fly from these hills and these dells;

And to-night I will sleep once again

(Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.