"'I spread out my pinions, and sprang on my perch--
'Twas the dragon on Bow, that odd sign of the church,
The episcopal centre of action;
All Cheapside was crowded with black, brown, and fair,
Like a harlequin's jacket, or French rocquelaire,
A legitimate Cheapside attraction.

"'Then rung through the tumult a trumpet so shrill,
That it frightened the ladies all down Ludgate Hill,
And the owlets in Ivy Lane;
Then came in their chariots, each face in full blow,
The sheriffs and aldermen, solemn and slow,
All bombazine, bag-wig and chain.

"'Then came the old tumbril-shaped city machine,
With a Lord Mayor so fat that he made the coach _lean_;
Lord Waithman was scarcely a brighter man;
The wits said the old groaning wagon of state,
Which for ages had carried Lord Mayors of such weight,
To-day would break down with a _lighter man_.

"'Then proud as a prince, at the head of the band
Rode the city field-marshal, with truncheon in hand,
Though his epaulettes lately are gone;
But he's still fine enough to astonish the cits,
And drive the economists out of their wits,
From Lords Waithman and Wood, to Lord John.

"'But I now left the pageant--wits, worthies, and all--
And flew through the smoke to the roof of Guildhall,