Back to the dust of the town,
	Back to the work at the mill,
Back to the wig and the gown,
	Back to the dun and the bill,
Back to SMITH, ROBINSON, BROWN,
	Back to the paper and quill!

No more of BIEDECHER'S Guide,
	No more of French table d'hôte,
No more of bridegroom and bride,
	No more adventures afloat,
No more of diligence ride,
	No more of circular note!

Back to my drama at day,
	Back to my leader at night,
Back to the Westminster fray,
	Back to the novel I write,
Back to my stall at the play,
	Back to PAM, GLADSTONE, and BRIGHT.

No more rouletting afar,
	No more of Baden or Ems,
No more disgusting cigar,
	No more of Belgians and Flems,
No more of channel and bar,
	No more upsailing of Thames!

Back to policeman and guard,
	Back to the Ovals and Squares,
Back to the ill-treated Bard,
	Back to the bulls and the bears,
Back to investments ill-starred,
	Back to the slap-bangy airs!

No more of black demi-tasse,
	No more six-sous petit verre,
No more liqueur as a chasse,
	No Burgomeister or Maire,
No play worth seeing, alas!
	No dining out in the air!

Back to the chimney-pot hat,
	Back to the chop at the club,
Back to my dog and my cat,
	Back to my evening rub,
Back — (I'm not sorry for that)
	Back to my sponge and my tub!

No more ablution in bowl,
	No more absinthe to be had,
No more fantastical roll,
	No more excursioning cad,
And, to tell you the truth, on the whole
	I swear I'm uncommonly glad!