Egerton Webbe (1810–1840)

HAIL to thee, Fog! most reverend, worthy Fog!

Come in thy full-wigged gravity: I much

Admire thee:—thy old dulness hath a touch

Of true respectability. The rogue

That calls thee names (a fellow I could flog)

Would beard his grandfather, and trip his crutch;

But I am dutiful, and hold with such

As deem thy solemn company no clog.

Not that I love to travel best incog.,

To pounce on latent lamp-posts, of to clutch

The butcher in my arms, or in a bog

Pass afternoons; but while through thee I jog,

I feel I am true English, and no Dutch,

Nor French, nor any other foreign dog

That never mixed his grog

Over a sea-coal fire a day like this,

And bid thee scowl thy worst, and found it bliss,

And to himself said, “Yes,

Italia’s skies are fair, her fields are sunny,

But,*****! Old England for my money.”