Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,
How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.
"Keep moving," we know, was the cry long ago;
But now, never hare was "found sitting," I swear,
Like the crowds who repair
To old Cavendish Square,
And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair.
In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!
And all are on tiptoe, the high and the low,