Bundy and son
In days that are done
Used to build coaches for everyone;
Manor and hall
Great folk and small,
Bundy’s built carriages once for ’em all.

Coaches and gigs
And thingummyjigs
For people in patches and full-bottomed wigs
That highwaymen stopped
Who long ago dropped
To dust on the gibbet where downland sheep cropped;

Cabriolets
And family shays
Of GEORGE'S and ANNE’S and VICTORIA’S days -
Slow wheels and fast
All have at last
Rattled away down the road of the Past.

Bundy is dead;
Pumps green and red
Stand in a row in his carriage works’ stead;
And, dappled with mire,
By the didakai’s fire
You may see the smart dog-cart he built for the squire,
With a skinny-ribbed gry
A-grazing hard by
And the didakai’s duds hanging about it to dry.