For him no more will sparkling firework burn,
Or busy waiter ply his evening care,
No acrobat a somersault will turn,
Or from the trapeze leap into the air.
Let not North Woolwich mock while they despoil
Cremorne’s quaint temples, grots, and glades obscure,
Some day the builder, with disdainful smile,
Will, too, its leafy avenues secure.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to Baum the fault,
If Chelsea triumphs while Cremorne decays;