84
Sunday at Hampstead.
"When the last trumpet-solo
Strikes up instead of the lark,
They'll turn in their sleep just grunting
Who's up so soon in the dark?"
Babble and gabble, you rabble,
A thousand in full yell!
And this is your Tower of Babel,
This not-to-be-finished Hotel.[1]
"You should see it in the drawing,
You'd think a Palace they make,
Like the one in the Lady of Lyons,
With this pond for the lovely lake!"
"I wish it wasn't Sunday,
There's no amusement at all:
Who was here Hot-cross-bun-day?
We had such an open-air ball!
The bands played polkas, waltzes,
Quadrilles; it was glorious fun!
And each gentleman gave them a penny
After each dance was done."
- ↑ (Since finished, in a fashion. The verses were written in 1863.)
