Navigation’s become such a trade,
That thousands who ne’er saw the ocean,
When projects are artfully laid,
Trip away at each favourite motion;
In person to fondly attend,
What jockey should not mount its pony,
And ride to the very Land’s end,
Where the object is the making of money.
Some people cried up Hampton Gay,
As prospects the greatest possessing,
The Grand Junction, ‘tis clear, bears the sway,
And the mania still is increasing;
At Ell’smere, don’t think I’m in jest,
Regardless of lodging or weather,
Of land navigators at least,
Full a thousand gathered together.
To mortals who share common sense,
‘Tis clear from this strong Canal Fever,
Whatever divines may advance,
Mankind are as sordid as ever;
Content e’en with those can’t be had,
Who riches immense have been savin’,
For spite of philosophy’s aid,
The mind is continually craving.
From projects, no doubt, some there are
Who et themselves into a hobble;
The Glo’ster at present bids fair,
But the Bristol turned out a mere bubble;
The winners much artifice use,
The losers without affectation,
But the working class always will lose
In matters of deep speculation.