Chaos returns! no soul's in town!
And darkness reigns where lamps once brightened;
Shutters are closed, and blinds drawn down--
Untrodden door-steps go unwhitened!
The echoes of some straggler's boots
Alone are on the pavement ringing
While 'prentice boys, who smoke cheroots,
Stand critics to some broom-girl's singing.
I went to call on Madame Sims,
In a dark street, not far from Drury;
An Irish crone half-oped the door.
Whose head might represent a fury.
"At home, sir?" "No! (_whisper_)--but I'll presume
To tell the truth, or know the _raison_.
She dines--tays--lives--in the back room,
Bekase 'tis not the London _saison_."
From thence I went to Lady Bloom's,
Where, after sundry rings and knocking,
A yawning, liveried lad appear'd,
His squalid face his gay clothes mocking
I asked him, in a faltering tone--
The house was closed--I guess'd the reason--
"Is Lady B.'s grand-aunt, then, gone?"--
"To Ramsgate, sir!--until next season!"
I sauntered on to Harry Gray's,
The _ennui_ of my heart to lighten;
His landlady, with, smirk and smile,
Said, "he had just run down to Brighton."
When home I turned my steps, at last,
A tailor--whom to kick were treason--
Pressed for his bill;--I hurried past,
Politely saying--CALL NEXT SEASON!
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