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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CIRCUS AT NIGHT by MADELEINE AARON TO THE NECROPHILE by WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG OUR MORNING GLORY by LEVI BISHOP I THINK I KNOW NO FINER THINGS THAN DOGS by HALLY CARRINGTON BRENT ABBOTSFORD by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE LORD HAYES: SONG by THOMAS CAMPION |