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By W—ll—m C—wp—r.
 'Tis evening. See with its resorting throng
  Rude Carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited
  With too-familiar elbow, swell the curse
  Vortiginous. The boating man returns,
  His rawness growing with experience—
  Strange union! and directs the optic glass
  Not unresponsive to Jemima's charms,
  Who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise
  Perambulant, the child. The gouty cit,
  Asthmatical, with elevated cane
  Pursues the unregarding tram, as one
  Who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds
  His loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man,
  Blaspheming. Now the clangorous bell proclaims
  The Times or Chronicle, and Rauca screams
  The latest horrid murder in the ear
  Of nervous dons expectant of the urn
  And mild domestic muffin.
  To the Parks
  Drags the slow Ladies' School, consuming time
  In passing given points. Here glow the lamps,
  And tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum
  Of scientific circles. Here resounds
  The football-field with its discordant train,
  The crowd that cheers but not discriminates,
  As ever into touch the ball returns
  And shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds
  With fine irregularity well worth
  The paltry shilling.—
  Draw the curtains close
  While I resume the night-cap dear to all
  Familiar with my illustrated works.

© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch