Let bucks and let bloods to praise London agree

Let bucks and let bloods to praise London agree,
Oh the joys of the country my jewel for me;
Where sweet is the flower that the May-bush adorns,
And how charming to gather it but for the thorns:
Where we walk o'er the mountains, with health our cheeks glowing,
As warm as a toast honey when it 'ent snowing,
Where nature to smile when she joyful inclines,
And the sun charms us all the year round when it shines:
Oh the mountains, and vallies, and bushes,
The pigs, and the screech-owls, and thrushes,
Let bloods and let bucks to praise London agree,
Oh the joys of the country my jewel for me!

There twelve hours on a stretch we in angling delight,
As patient as Jobs, though we get ne'er a bite,
There we pop at the wild ducks, and frighten the crows,
While so lovely the icicles hang to our cloaths;
There wid aunts, and wid cousins, and grandmothers talking,
We're caught in the rain as we're all out a walking,
While the muslins and gauzes cling round each fair she,
That they look all like Venuses sprung from the sea.
Oh the mountains, &c.

Then how sweet in the dog days to take the fresh air,
Where, to save you expence, the dust powders your hair:
Thus pleasures, like snow-balls, encrease as they roll,
And tire you to death—not forgetting the bowl;
Where in mirth and good fellowship always delighting,
We agree, that is when we're not squabbling and fighting,
Den wid toasts and pint bumpers we bodder the head,
Just to see who most gracefully staggers to bed.
Oh the mountains, &c.