Note 4 — Chapter IV · THE THEATRE BOOTH.

“She is dead, the mummer gay, With the powder on her face, On her lips a merry lay, Flowers nestling in her lace. In her “caravan” she lies Twixt empty bottles and wax lights, Her mother decks her, rouge applies, As though it were for her ‘first nights.’ She waits, until they raise the trap, Three knocks, the rising curtain hails, She waits . . . alas! I hear them tap, But ’tis upon the heads of nails.”