From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme.
And then the cad who tends the ’bus—his virtues who may tell?
How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell:
How when he’s bound for Brompton he’ll engage to put you down
Within a “heasy walk” of any part of Camden Town,
By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.
Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins,
Who constantly is pulling up for furtive “little drains:”
And ’specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail
Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail