The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees;
By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,
Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly.
Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming,
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,
And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!
Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont
And I meet all the people I do know, or don’t:
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie—