Beneath the pale electric light;
The roll of trucks, the noise, the hustle,
The bawling "By yer leave!" and bustle.
While anxious tourists blame and bless
The Continental Mail Express!
Though wanting minutes ten to Eight,
Still people hurry through the gate:
Now London's dull, the Season over,
They flit from Charing Cross to Dover;
They take their tickets, pay their fare,