Then Bright, Jacob Bright! But time fails us to tell
The whole sorrowful tale of our manifold losses.
Big Ben’s solemn boom strikes the ear like a knell,
As we muse on our Ecroyds, and moan o’er our Crosses.
Good Gosset, ’tis well you no longer are here,
For the Lobby strikes chill, and the Terrace looks sodden;
The winter wind wails, not a Happy New Year,
But a mournful lament like the dirge after Flodden.
So sounds it to one who remembers old days:
Yet dreams of the past are but bogies and spectres,