Westland Row

      Every Sunday there's a throng

      Of pretty girls, who trot along

      In a pious, breathless state

      (They are nearly always late)

      To the Chapel, where they pray

      For the sins of Saturday.

      They have frocks of white and blue,

      Yellow sashes they have too,

      And red ribbons show each head

      Tenderly is ringleted;

      And the bell rings loud, and the

      Railway whistles urgently.

      After Chapel they will go,

      Walking delicately slow,

      Telling still how Father John

      Is so good to look upon

      And such other grave affairs

      As they thought of during prayers.