Saw we, or heard the creature that had followed in our lee!
B. W. Procter.
The Return of the Omnibus.
How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane,
The passengers all hope to catch the eight o’clock up-train;
The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly,
Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry:
And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep;
Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep.