Then gave her golden gleanings to the girl in Soap Suds Row.
Oh, there are many lovers of sweet Sheila Shanahan,
The seagulls and the sundown breeze upon the barbican;
The pigeons on the parapets, the disappearing guns,
The sign-boards on the magazines, the Colonel’s rompered sons,
And while the sunset tarrieth and while an army waits,
The children from the post school storm the dusty barrack gates;
They wander into Soap Suds Row with laughter in the van
The bravest of the cavaliers of Sheila Shanahan.