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!”