Under the faded shawl.

Never we wince, though none deplore us,

We who go reaping that we sowed;

Cities at cock-crow wake before us—

Hey, for the lilt of the London road!

One look back, and a rousing chorus!

Never a palinode!

Still on her spire the pigeons hover;

Still by her gateway haunts the gown.

Ah! but her secret? You, young lover,

Drumming her old ones forth from town,

Know you the secret none discover?

Tell it—when you go down.

 Yet if at length you seek her, prove her, Lean to her whispers never so nigh; Yet if at last not less her lover You in your hansom leave the High; Down from her towers a ray shall hover— Touch you, a passer-by!  

Lean to her whispers never so nigh;

Yet if at last not less her lover

You in your hansom leave the High;

Down from her towers a ray shall hover—

Touch you, a passer-by!

CHRISTMAS EVE

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