Thro' Kentish-town, up Highgate-hill,
Our horses move—against their will;
And, while they snuff the wholesome wind,
We cast a parting look behind,
Pleas'd t' have left yon sable cloud,
That buries millions in its shroud;
Alas! they toil, the sons of care!
And never breathe the purer air
In this lengthy poem, the author uses poetry to map many places on his journey from Kent to Doncaster in the North of England.