Oh, to be in London now that April's there,

And whoever walks in London sees, some morning in the square,

That the upper thousands have come to town,

To the plane-trees droll in their new bark gown,

While the sparrows chirp, and the cats miaow

In London—now!

And after April, when May follows

And the black-coats come and go like swallows!

Mark, where yon fairy blossom in the Row

Leans to the rails, and canters on in clover,

Blushing and drooping, with her head bent low!

That's the wise child: she makes him ask twice over,

Lest he should think she views with too much rapture

Her first fine wealthy capture!

But,—though her path looks smooth, and though, alack!

All will be gay, till Time has painted black

The Marigold, her mother's chosen flower,—

Far brighter is my Heartsease, Love's own dower.