Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along,
Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song;
And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight;
And then we thought we heard him say ‘I think we is too late.’
He shook—’twas but an instant—we saw his fearful plight,
The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right.
He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath,
And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death.
We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again!
We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the ‘eight up-train.’