There are beautiful lanes leading down to the Thames
By the meadows all studded with buttercup gems,
Where the thrush and the blackbird and cuckoo all day
Waft their songs on the incense of roses and may.
But the lanes here in London, near warehouse and mart,
Are as winding and steep and as dear to my heart;
Their mansions all mildewed in tenderest tones,
With priceless old doorways by INIGO JONES.
Though the roadway is rough and the cobbles are hard,
There are plane-trees in leaf in St. Dunstan's churchyard,
And the twittering sparrows their parliament keep
In the peaceful demesne where the citizens sleep.
Oh! the sights and the sounds of those wonderful lanes,
The tramp of the horses, the creak of the cranes,
Men fresh from the perils that lurk in the seas,
The balm of the Indies that spices the breeze.
Crude critics find fault with the fish-porters' yells,
The strength of the briny and orangey smells,
But they're part of the charm of the lanes I hold dear,
"Harp," "Pudding" and "Idol," "Love," "Water" and "Beer."
R. H. ROBERTS.
July 12, 1916.