While the minxes at Mugby Bar
Smiled, serene, upon the war,
For they'd learnt the art,
And looked the part—
Of "We are your betters far."
But in Pullman's dining-car, Sir,
Now run on the Northern Line,
You've a soup, and a roast, and entrées,
And your cheese and your pint of wine.
At his table snug the passenger sits,