Save that, as if to make display of power,
An army howls, while marching to the strains
Of noisy bands, regardless of Nott-Bower,
And blocks the passage of our streets and lanes.
Beneath those railway lines that man hath made,
Where slabs lie prone upon the embankment’s heap,
Each sacrificed to compensation paid,
Our Leeds forefathers down by Kirkgate sleep.
The snorting puff of carboniferous smoke,
The engine clattering from the loco-shed,