Westland Row

Every Sunday there's a throng      Of pretty girls, who trot along      In a pious, breathless state      (They are nearly always late)      To the Chapel, where they pray      For the sins of Saturday.      They have frocks of white and blue,      Yellow sashes they have too,      And red ribbons show each head      Tenderly is ringleted;      And the bell rings loud, and the      Railway whistles urgently.      After Chapel they will go,      Walking delicately slow,      Telling still how Father John      Is so good to look upon      And such other grave affairs      As they thought of during prayers.