HAGBUSH LANE.

Poor HAGBUSH LANE! thy ancient charms are going

To rack and ruin fast as they can go;

And where but lately many a flow’r was growing,

Nothing shall shortly be allow’d to grow!

Thy humble cottage, where as yet they sell

No “nut-brown ale,” or luscious Stilton cheese--

Where dusky gipsies in the summer dwell,

And donkey drivers fight their dogs at ease,

Shall feel ere long the lev’lling hand of taste,

If that be _taste_ which darkens ev’ry field;

Thy garden too shall likewise be displac’d,

And no more “cabbage” to its master yield;

But, in its stead, some new Vauxhall perchance

Shall rise, renown’d for pantomime and dance!