They haunt Ionic capitals with learned lullabies
And each laments in anapaests and in iambics cries;
But Peter, Peter Pigeon, how sleepily he sighs!
The pigeons walk the Guildhall; they dress in civic taste
With amplitude of mayoral chain and aldermanic waist;
They bow their grey emphatic heads, their topknots rise and fall,
They cluster in the courtyard at their midday dinner call;
But Peter, Peter Pigeon, he nods beneath my shawl.
The pigeons brood in Battersea; while yet the dawn is dark
Their ready aubade ripples in the plane-trees round the park;