The drops of rain were falling fast,
When up through Camp-street quickly pass'd,
An omnibus, whose driver sung,
In accents of the Celtic tongue--
Ge-lang! git up!
His mules were lank, his whip was long;
He touch'd them with a biting thong,
And as they switch'd their threadbare tails,
This sound the listening ear assails--
Ge-lang! git up!
Along the street, on every side,
Were damp ones waiting for a ride;
They call'd, they yell'd, they raised a fuss,
But cried the driver of the 'bus.
Ge-lang! git up!
"Hold on! hold on!" an old man said,
And waved his hand above his head;
Crack went the whip, and all could hear
A sharp sound echoing on the ear--
Ge-lang! git up!
"Stop, driver, stop!" a maiden call'd
"Stop, stop!" a dozen voices bawl'd
The driver look'd on neither side,
But still in clarion voice replied--
Ge-lang! git up!
Far up the street a sound was heard,
And through the distance came a word
That fell on many a waiting soul
Like Hope's lugubrious funeral toll--
Ge-lang! git up!
That night the driver went to bed;
All through his troubled sleep he said
The same strange words which he had flung
All day from his Jehuic tongue--
Ge-lang! git up!