Thy fields, fair Islington! begin to bear
Unwelcome buildings, and unseemly piles;
The streets are spreading, and the Lord knows where
Improvement’s hand will spare the neighb’ring stiles:
The rural blandishments of Maiden Lane
Are ev’ry day becoming less and less,
While kilns and lime roads force us to complain
Of nuisances time only can suppress.
A few more years, and COPENHAGEN HOUSE
Shall cease to charm the tailor and the snob;
And where attornies’ clerks in smoke carouse,
Regardless wholly of to-morrow’s job,
Some Claremont Row, or Prospect-Place shall rise,
Or terrace, p’rhaps, misnomer’d PARADISE!