  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. |
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