And the rattle of its boxes still is music in my ears:
With a bow to family vanity it rises from the past
As the pride of the selection where my humble youth was cast.
It was fashioned in a nightmare by some wandering genius,
And it wasn’t quite a waggon, and it wasn’t quite a ’bus;
’Twas an old four-wheeled gazabo that was something in between,
And the wheels were painted yellow, and the rest was painted green
(It would waken lively interest in the antiquarian)
And ’twas known to all the country as the Old Mass Shandrydan.
It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more,