‘ THE CRIES OF LONDON’

No‘ Milk below maid’ now awakes

The city with her plaintive pipe;

No tuneful pedlar hawks‘ Hot Cakes!’

No wench at dawn the silence breaks

With strains of‘ Cherry Ripe!’

No cries of‘ Mack'rel!’ subtly blend

With‘ Knives to grind!’ or‘ Chairs to mend!’

The fireman's shout no more we hear;

‘ Punch’ and his satellites are dumb;

No more, when autumn days draw near,

Do songs of‘ Lavender!’ rise clear

Above the traffic's hum.

No‘ China orange’ now is sold;

The muffin's knell is mutely toll'd!

And yet our nerves are sorely tried —

Since Nature's lute has many a rift —

By‘ cries’ which Tube and‘ bus provide:

‘ Fares please!’‘'Old tight, miss!’‘ Full inside!’

‘ No smoking in the lift!’

And oh! the gulf that separates

‘ Sweet lavender!’ from‘ Mind the gates!’