On either side the road was lined
With vehicles of ev'ry kind,
And as the rapid wheel went round,
There seem'd scarce room to clear the ground.
"Gate-gate-push on--how do--well met--
Pull up--my tits are on the fret--
The number--lost it--tip then straight,
That covey vants to bilk the gate."
The toll-house welcome this to town.
Your prime, flash, bang up, fly, or down,
A tidy team of prads,--your castor's
Quite a Joliffe tile,--my master.
Thus buck and coachee greet each other,
And seem familiar as a brother.
No Chinese wall, or rude barrier,
Obstructs the view, or entrance here;
Nor fee or passport,--save the warder,
Who draws to keep the roads in order;
No questions ask'd, but all that please
May pass and repass at their ease.
In cockney land, the seventh day
Is famous for a grand display
Of modes, of finery, and dress,
Of cit, west-ender, and noblesse,
Who in Hyde Park crowd like a fair
To stare, and lounge, and take the air,
Or ride or drive, or walk, and chat
On fashions, scandal, and all that.
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