Volume 152 — PICCADILLY.

Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze, The whirring of wheels and the murmur of trees; By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly, Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly. Thus carolled Fred Locker, just sixty years back, In a year ('57) when the outlook was black, And even to-day the war-weariest Willie Recovers his spirits in dear Piccadilly. We haven't the belles with their Gainsborough hats, Or the Regency bucks with their wondrous cravats, But now that the weather no longer is chilly; There's much to enchant us in New Piccadilly. As I sit in my club and partake of my "ration" No longer I'm vexed by the follies of fashion; The dandified Johnnies so precious and silly— You seek them in vain in the New Piccadilly. The men are alert and upstanding and fit, They've most of them done or they're doing their bit; With the eye of a hawk and the stride of a gillie They add a new lustre to Old Piccadilly. And the crippled but gay-hearted heroes in blue Are a far finer product than wicked "old Q," Who ought to have lived in a prison on skilly Instead of a palace in mid Piccadilly. The women are splendid, so quiet and strong, As with resolute purpose they hurry along— Excepting the flappers, who chatter as shrilly As parrots let loose to distract Piccadilly. Thus I muse as I watch with a reverent eye The New Generation sweep steadily by, And judge him an ass or a born Silly Billy Who'd barter the New for the Old Piccadilly.