I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park
soon to be devoured.
I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it.
I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed by it.
Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square!
Oh, dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of
old clothes' shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the
superannuated herring,
Are you going to see another House of Correction—a Postal one—built
where the old one stood?