Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,
My language, like my hat, flew free?
Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
The hat went scudding fast before;
By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
The more I ran, it flew the more.
While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile,
"I'll lay the toff don't catch 'is tile."
On, on—at last it seemed to tire