Improvement, hail! Thy busy hand
To court or alley gives no quarter;
Against thee nothing now can stand:
Thou art too strong for bricks and mortar.
Before the parapets and tiles,
Houses and streets promiscuous fall;
Thou hast so altered old St. Giles,
Few now would know him, by St. Paul.
The gallant captains, Parry, Ross,
Each made the trial once or twice,
To take a desperate cut across
Some awful blocks of thick-ribbed ice.
"No thoroughfare," did nature cry,
So Ross and Parry homewards flew:
London Improvement doth defy
Each _cul de sac_, and cuts it through.
At parlour, factory, or shop,
At public entrance, private door,
Or window e'en, it does not stop,
But rudely pushes more and more.
Improvement, too, performs a task,
Worthy a scientific hand;
Turns sand into the sugar cask,
Thus into sugar turning sand.