Old dames complained of aches unknown before,

Unused to battle with such dreadful heat,

Such truly fearful spasms, and such blistered feet.

IV.

The 'buses went by clockwork by the appearance;

Th' exalted driver, usually so deft,

Resented, in his doze, the interference

Of any one poor fellow-suff'rer left;

Of all his strength and energy bereft,

The weary horse dragged listlessly along,

And there appeared to be no effort left

In the sleepy trilling of the songster's song,

Which to the small suburban gardens did belong.[3]

[3]

V.

Now the slow music of the organ-grinder

Smites the ear feebly at the noon of day,

He doffs his hat, as if for a reminder,

To those who wish him far enough away;

And noisy babes at variance and play

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