The eager crowd along the lobby throng,
The youngsters lean against the crowded door,
Ogling the ladies as they pass along.
The gas lamps fade, the foot-lights hide their heads,
And not a soul beside myself is seen,
Save where the lacquey dirty canvas spreads,
The painted boxes from the dust to screen.
Save that, in yonder gallery enshrined,
Some ragged girl complains in angry tone
Of such as, sitting in the seat behind,