OUR OPERA.
To hear sweet strains by Glück 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.