Every Sunday there's a throng <br />Of pretty girls, who trot along <br />In a pious, breathless state <br />(They are nearly always late) <br />To the Chapel, where they pray <br />For the sins of Saturday. <br /> <br />They have frocks of white and blue, <br />Yellow sashes they have too, <br />And red ribbons show each head <br />Tenderly is ringleted; <br />And the bell rings loud, and the <br />Railway whistles urgently. <br /> <br />After Chapel they will go, <br />Walking delicately slow, <br />Telling still how Father John <br />Is so good to look upon <br />And such other grave affairs <br />As they thought of during prayers.<br /><br />James Brunton Stephens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/westland-row-2/
