Below there’s a brumming and strumming
And twiddling and fiddling amain,
And sweeping of muslins and laughter,
And pattering of luminous rain.
Fair England, resplendent Columbia,
Gaul, Teuton,—how precious a smother!
But the happiest is brisk little Polly
To galop with only her brother.
And up to the fourth étage landing,
Come the violins’ passionate cries,
Where the pale femme-de-chambre is sitting
With sleep in her beautiful eyes.