A fog in London daytime like the night is,
Our fellow-creatures seem like wandering ghosts,
The dull mephitic cloud will bring bronchitis;
You cannon into cabs or fall o'er posts.
The air is full of pestilential vapours,
Innumerable "blacks" come with the smoke;
The thief and rough cut unmolested capers,
In truth a London fog's no sort of joke.
You rise by candle-light or gaslight, swearing
There never was a climate made like ours;
If rashly you go out to take an airing,
The soot-flakes come in black plutonian show'rs.
Your carriage wildly runs into another,
No matter though you go at walking pace;
You meet your dearest friend, or else your brother
And never know him, although face to face.
The hours run on, and night and day commingle,
Unutterable filth is in the air;
You're much depressed, e'en in the fire-side ingle,
The hag dyspepsia seems everywhere.
Your wild disgust in vain you try to bridle,
Mad as March hare or hydrophobic dog,
You feel, in fact, intensely suicidal:
Such things befall us in a London fog!
THE MOST LOYAL OF CUP-BEARERS.--A blind man's dog.
NOT QUITE WHAT HE MEANT.
Joan (on her annual Spring visit to London). "There, John, I think that would suit me."
Darby (grumblingly). "That, Maria? Why, a pretty figure it would come to!"
Joan. "Ah, John dear, you're always so complimentary! I'll go and ask the price."]
