Country roads are yellow and brown. We mend the roads in London town. Never a hansom dare come nigh, Never a cart goes rolling by. An unwonted silence steals In between the turning wheels. Quickly ends the autumn day, And the workman goes his way, Leaving, midst the traffic rude, One small isle of solitude, Lit, throughout the lengthy night, By the little lantern's light.
Jewels of the dark have we, Brighter than the rustic's be. Over the dull earth are thrown Topaz, and the ruby stone.
