The wheels of the waggons grind;
All night has the driver, with seldom a word,
His horses nodded behind;
And your waggoner is as early a bird
As in Babylon one may find.
I say to myself, "No, there is not one
To block up the street and stay
Till the hum of the City hath well begun."
I chortle in joyaunce gay.
"Now half to the Southern suburbs are gone,