Now fainter grows the lumbering roll of luggage-cumbered omnibus:
Bayswater's children all are off upon their annual exodus.
On every hoarding posters flaunt the charms of peak, and loch, and sea,
To madden those unfortunates who have to stay in town—like me!
Gone are the inconsiderate friends who tell one airily, "They're off!"
And ask "what you propose to do—yacht, shoot, or fish, or walk, or golf?"
On many a door which opened wide in welcome but the other day,
The knocker basks in calm repose—conscious "the family's away."
I scan the windows—half in hope I may some friendly face detect—
To meet their blank brown-papered stare, depressing as the cut direct!