And Richardson winds slowly out of town;
Poor old “young Saunders” sees his setting son,—
And Gyngell pulls his red tom-tawdry down.
Now three cart-horses draw the caravan,
O’er smooth MacAdams, to provincial fairs,
And pining showmen, with companions wan,
Make dreary humour, while the hawbuck stares!
No more shall cockneys don their Sunday coats,
Stepney, Brook-green, or brighter Bow to fill,
No folk shall row to Greenwich Hill in boats,