Classic Poem

Give me a wide and noble field,
Where there at least is room to die!
O from this narrow huckstering world,
Ere I am stifled, let me fly!

Their meat and drink is of the best,
And, blind as moles, they take their pleasure;
The opening in a poor-box lid
Their charity would more than measure.

Cigar in mouth, and idle hands
Stuck in their pockets, see them pass!
Their stomachs are beyond reproach —
'Tis how to stomach them , alas!

They deal in every spice that grows,
But roots, the sweetest, cannot quell
The putrid foulness of their souls,
That vile as rotten haddocks smell.

O had I seen some monstrous vice,
Some crime colossal, bloody, found —
Aught save these virtues, morals smug
Of twenty shillings in the pound!

Ye clouds above, O bear me forth
To Africa, to Lapland drear:
To Pomerania itself —
No matter where, if far from here!

O take me with you! But the clouds
Are far too wise to pause or heed.
For, when they travel o'er this town,
They hurry on at double speed.