To hear sweet strains by GLUeCK or GOUNOD,
MASCAGNI, WAGNER, one must, you know,
Pass slums; at dark it
Is nice in Endell Street and Bow Street;
Still better in that fragrant nose treat--
"Mudsalad Market."
Inside, say, _Orpheus_ sings in Hades
To gallant men and noble ladies--
Rank, wealth, and beauty;
Outside, Elysium is forgotten.
To clear away these slums, half rotten,
Is no one's duty.
Inside, MASCAGNI'S _Intermezzo_,
Though heard in many places, yet so
Delightful ever;
Outside, cab touts and paper sellers,
And other people's pert _Sam Weller's_,
Delightful never!
Inside, some day, the newest, _Falstaff_,
Will occupy a far from small staff
Of band and chorus;
Outside, as now, old slums ill-smelling,
And costermongers, shouting, yelling,
Will be before us.
Once someone started building greatly,
Walls rose, arranged to form quite stately
House, _foyers_, lobbies.
They stopped, extremely gaunt and lonely,
And, now the site is used, it's only
A haunt of bobbies.
So still Euterpe's home is hidden
In ill-paved slums, through which we've ridden
With jolts that jerk us.
How unlike Paris! Did we follow
Her taste, we should enshrine Apollo
At Regent Circus.
* * * * *