In furs and silks, with, languid stare. Drawn by the plumed and jingling pair, The matrons ride; The liveried flunkies on the box, As smart and vain as turkey-cocks. Reflect their pride. The tight-breeched youth, escorting drags, Go bumping past on bang-tailed nags, And grin in pain; They look on those who walk at ease Where they and not their horses please, With high disdain. The dude limps by with monstrous stick; His legs are thin, his head is thick, His mien exotic. The frizzled girl, on wabbling heels, Stepping as if on wriggling eels, Smiles idiotic. The women saunter three abreast, Talk all at once, and push the rest, — Of gowns they talk. The red-faced bonne, with stiff white cap, With babe in carriage deep in nap, Takes up the walk. The brokers pass, with clean-shaved faces; They talk of politics and races, And what " it cost;" They brag of bets that they have laid, And tell each other what they 've made, — Not what they've lost.
My mansion's rear has windows small, Which overlook the houses tall, Backed up to view, In which these pompous people live; ' And what my casual prospects give I'll tell to you. The area walls, with moss o'ergrown. The broken stairs, the old shoes thrown At cats belated;
