The Poetry Corner

After London

By J. D. C. Fellow

London Bridge is broken down; Green is the grass on Ludgate Hill; I know a farmer in Camden Town Killed a brock by Pentonville. I have heard my grandam tell How some thousand years ago Houses stretched from Camberwell Right to Highbury and Bow. Down by Shadwell's golden meads Tall ships' masts would stand as thick As the pretty tufted reeds That the Wapping children pick. All the kings from end to end Of all the world paid tribute then, And meekly on their knees would bend To the King of the Englishmen. Thinks I while I dig my plot, What if your grandam's tales be true? Thinks I, be they true or not, What's the odds to a fool like you? Thinks I, while I smoke my pipe Here beside the tumbling Fleet, Apples drop when they are ripe, And when they drop are they most sweet.