The Widow in the Bye Street

by John Masefield

The rifles cease, the folk begin to go,

The hands unclamp the swing-boats from the wheel,

There is a smell of trodden orange peel;

The organ drones and dies, the horses stop,

And then the tent collapses from the top.

The fair is over, let the people troop,

The drunkards stagger homewards down the gutters,

The showmen heave in an excited group,

The poles tilt slowly down, the canvas flutters,

The mauls knock out the pins, the last flare sputters.