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| ST. JAMES’S STREET, of classic fame! | |
| The finest people throng it!— | |
| St. James’s Street? I know the name! | |
| I think I ’ve passed along it! | |
| Why, that ’s where Sacharissa sighed | 5 |
| When Waller read his ditty; | |
| Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, | |
| And Alvanley was witty. | |
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| A famous street. It skirts the Park | |
| Where Rogers took his pastime; | 10 |
| Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, | |
| And then call up the fast time! | |
| The plats at White’s, the play at Crock’s, | |
| The bumpers to Miss Gunning; | |
| The bonhomie of Charlie Fox, | 15 |
| And Selwyn’s ghastly funning. | |
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| The dear old street of clubs and cribs, | |
| As north and south it stretches, | |
| Still smacks of Williams’ pungent squibs, | |
| And Gillray’s fiercer sketches; | 20 |
| The quaint old dress, the grand old style, | |
| The mots, the racy stories;— | |
| The wine, the dice,—the wit, the bile, | |
| The hate of Whigs and Tories. | |
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| At dusk, when I am strolling there, | 25 |
| Dim forms will rise around me; | |
| Old Pepys creeps past me in his chair, | |
| And Congreve’s airs astound me! | |
| And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite, | |
| Looked kindly when I met her; | 30 |
| I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite | |
| Forgot to quite forget her. | |
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| The street is still a lively tomb | |
| For rich and gay and clever; | |
| The crops of dandies bud, and bloom, | 35 |
| And die as fast as ever. | |
| Now gilded youth loves cutty-pipes, | |
| And slang that ’s rather rancid,— | |
| It can’t approach its prototypes | |
| In tone,—or so I ’ve fancied. | 40 |
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| In Brummell’s day of buckle shoes, | |
| Starch cravats, and roll collars, | |
| They ’d fight, and woo, and bet,—and lose | |
| Like gentlemen and scholars: | |
| I like young men to go the pace, | 45 |
| I half forgive old Rapid; | |
| These louts disgrace their name and race,— | |
| So vicious and so vapid! | |
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| Worse times may come. Bon ton, alas! | |
| Will then be quite forgotten, | 50 |
| And all we much revere will pass | |
| From ripe to worse than rotten; | |
| Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones, | |
| And owls will roost at Boodle’s, | |
| And Echo will hurl back the tones | 55 |
| Of screaming Yankee Doodles. | |
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| I like the haunts, and many such, | |
| Where wit and wealth are squandered, | |
| The gardened mansions, just as much, | |
| Where grace and rank have wandered,— | 60 |
| The spots where ladies fair and leal | |
| First ventured to adore me!— | |
| And something of the like I feel | |
| For this old street before me. | |
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