So, tired thus, so tended, and so sung, They crossed the city through the marvelling crowd. Maids with wide eyes from upper windows hung, The children waved their toys and sang aloud. But in his van the beaten showman bowed His head upon his hands, and wept, not knowing Aught of what passed except that wind was blowing. All through the town the fluting led them on, But near the western gate King Cole retired; And, as he ceased, the vans no longer shone, The bright procession dimmed like lamps expired; Again with muddy vans and horses tired, And artists cross and women out of luck, The sodden circus plodded through the muck. The crowd of following children loitered home; Maids shut the windows lest more rain should come; The circus left the streets of flowers and flags, King Cole walked with it, huddling in his rags. They reached the western gate and sought to pass. "Take back this frowsy show to where it was," The sergeant of the gateway-sentry cried; "You know quite well you cannot pass outside." _The Showman:_ But we were told to pass here, by the guard. _The Sergeant:_ Here are the printed orders on the card. No traffic, you can read. Clear out. _The Showman:_ But where? _The Sergeant:_ Where you're not kicked from, or there's room to spare. Go back and out of town the way you came. _The Showman:_ I've just been sent from there. Is this a game? _The Sergeant:_ You'll find it none, my son, if that's your tone. _The Showman:_ You redcoats; ev'n your boots are not your own. _The Sergeant:_ No, they're the Queen's; I represent the Queen. _The Showman:_ Pipeclay your week's accounts, you red marine. _The Sergeant:_ Thank you, I will. Now vanish. Right-about. _The Showman:_ Right, kick the circus in or kick it out, But kick us, kick us hard, we've got no friends, We've no Queen's boots or busbies on our ends; We're poor, we like it, no one cares; besides These dirty artists ought to have thick hides. The dust, like us, is fit for boots to stamp, None but Queen's redcoats are allowed to camp In this free country. _A Policeman:_ What's the trouble here? _The Showman:_ A redcoat dog, in need of a thick ear. _The Policeman:_ The show turned back? No, sergeant, let them through. They can't turn back, because the Prince is due. Best let them pass. _The Sergeant:_ Then pass; and read the rules Another time. _The Showman:_ You fat, red-coated fools. _The Policeman:_ Pass right along.