My hat, my hat--away it flew--
The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong--
My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,
My language, like my hat, flew free?
Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
The hat went scudding fast before;
By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
The more I ran, it flew the more.
While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile,
"I'll lay the toff don't catch 'is tile."
On, on--at last it seemed to tire
Of pavements and pursuing feet.
It soared, then settled in the mire,
Full in the middle of the street,
A mud-stained, shattered relic--not
The bright new hat I bought from SCOTT.
Now was my time; I rushed--but no--
Fate ever mocks an ardent man;
Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow,
Bore down a ponderous Pickford-Van,
And under two broad wheels crushed flat
My loved but suicidal hat.
Have hats got souls, and can they hate?
Are street-boys higher than the brute?
Avails it to discuss of fate,
Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute?
Nay, why of all created things
Should new silk hats be made with wings?
I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers,
Speed me to some deserted land,
Where blow no winds and fall no showers,
Far from the street-boys and the Strand.
There all unfriended let me dwell,
A hatless hermit in a cell.
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