They bid me mark the mighty stream,

Which Mississippi rolls to sea;

But then I sink in pensive dream,

And turn my thoughts, dear Thames, to thee!

They bid me note the mountains high,

Whose snow-capp'd peaks my prospect end;

I only heave a secret sigh—

To Ludgate Hill my wishes tend.

They taunt me with our denser air,

And fogs so thick you scarce can see;

Then, yellow fog, I will declare,

Though strange to say, I long for thee.

And everything in this bright clime

But serves to turn my thoughts to thee!

Thou, London, of an earlier time,

Oh! when shall I return to thee?