You may boast your great improvements,

Your inventions and your "movements,"

For those who stay at home, and those who travel;

But arrangements for the latter

Are so complex, that the matter

Makes them dotty as a hatter

To unravel.

There was once an ancient lady

Whom we knew as Miss O'Grady,

Who was asked to spend the autumn down at Trew.

So in fear and trepidation

She sought out her destination,

And betook her to the station—

Waterloo.

She took her little ticket

And she did not fail to stick it

With half-a-dozen coppers in her glove.

Another moment found her

With a plenty to astound her—

For she'd notice-boards all round her,

And above!

So she studied every number

On those sign-posts that encumber

All the station; and she learned them one by one;

But she found the indication

Of the platforms of the station

Not much use as information

When she'd done.

In her shocking state of fluster

Little courage could she muster,

Yet of porters she accosted one or two;

But, too shy to claim attention,

And too full of apprehension,

She could get no one to mention

"Which for Trew."

So she trudged through every station—

"North," "South," "Main,"—in quick rotation,

And then she gave a trial to the "Loop";

Like some hapless new Pandora

She sat down a-gasping for a

Little hope to live on—or a

Plate o' soup.

* * * * *

'Mid the bustle and the hissing

An old maiden lady's "Missing"—

In some corner of the complicated maze;

And round about she's gliding

In unwilling, hideous hiding,

On the platform, loop, or siding,

In a craze.

And still they cannot find her,

For she leaves no trace behind her

At Vauxhall, Clapham Junction, Waterloo;

But she passes like a comet

With the myst'ry of Mahomet—

Her course unknown—and from it

Not a clue!