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! '
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