Toil tramps, free humours crowd, rough wastrels stray.
Therein his magic pencil laboured gladly,
Fixing for ever on his chosen page
In forms fond memory now reviews so sadly
The crowded pageant of a passing age.
What an array! How varied a procession!
The humours of the parlour, shop, and street;
Philistia's every calling, craft, profession,
Cockneydom's cheery cheek and patter fleet.
Scotch dryness, Irish unction and cajolery,