 | May Fair |  |
Ye well-bred charms of southern skies,
Where daylight by appointment dies;
Where, just as your Siesta's done,
Dead to a second drops the sun:
As dead as ever melo-drame,
Engender'd 'twixt K*n*r*d and L*m*b;
As dead as Antipope professions
Of Mister B*nk*s's final sessions.
'Tis sweet Italian Night; you rise,
The rabble vanish from your eyes:
Ten thousand figures round you flit,
They're seen as much as H*rt*n's wit.
You hear a whisper, smell cigars,
Catch the low twanging of guitars;
And, but where Punch sets up his camp,
Or where “Our Lady” lights her lamp,
While some sweet face beneath it twinkles,
Fresh from its holy water sprinkles;
Or lights and chanting in some chapel,
Remind you that you're still “en Naples;”
You'd think the locomotive hosts
Were very easy manner'd ghosts.
Where daylight by appointment dies;
Where, just as your Siesta's done,
Dead to a second drops the sun:
As dead as ever melo-drame,
Engender'd 'twixt K*n*r*d and L*m*b;
As dead as Antipope professions
Of Mister B*nk*s's final sessions.
148
The rabble vanish from your eyes:
Ten thousand figures round you flit,
They're seen as much as H*rt*n's wit.
You hear a whisper, smell cigars,
Catch the low twanging of guitars;
And, but where Punch sets up his camp,
Or where “Our Lady” lights her lamp,
While some sweet face beneath it twinkles,
Fresh from its holy water sprinkles;
Or lights and chanting in some chapel,
Remind you that you're still “en Naples;”
You'd think the locomotive hosts
Were very easy manner'd ghosts.
| May Fair | |