A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.
Its windows old let in the cold whene’er the east wind blows,
And drip by drip the wet admit, whene’er it rains or snows;
But how to get them open without breaking no one knows,
When with “12 inside” the atmosphere a little “stuffy” grows,
In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time.
Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days,
With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze;
But now their threadbare covering’s a dingy brickdust red,
And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps of lead,