Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand,
While Jullien waves his wearied hand,
And leads the final galopade.
The pace now quickens. On, ye slow!
Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go.
Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow,
And make the walls re-echo thee!
Few, few, remain that sound to greet,
The dancers rest their burning feet;
And each cab in St. James’s-street