Ye bars and gates o’ Bloomsbury,
How can ye stand so silent there?
How can ye, knowing ye are doomed,
From some sma’ signs o’ grief forbear?
He’ll break his heart, will Bedford’s duke,
Whose grandeur County Councils spurn,
As he bemoans his feudal rights—
Departed never to return.
Ye bars and gates, ye’re comin’ doon;
No more ye’ll block the freeman’s path,
And make the traveller lose his train,
Or rouse the British cabman’s wrath.
Wi’ lightsome heart we root ye up,
And leave the streets o’ London free;
And there’s but one will mourn your loss,
And that’s his grace the Duke of B.