As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.
Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noon-tide was seen;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,
Had rumpled and ruin’d and wreck’d as it pass’d;
And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste,
As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.
And there lay the feather and fan, side by side,