The Athenæum, where he snores;
The “Troc,” and several other bars;
The hall where Marie makes us roar
With jokes our consciences deplore
And where dear Vesta Tilley sings
—Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!—
Where Robey leaps on from the wings,
And good old X forgets her part.
Then who can think of Richmond Hill
In summertime, without a thrill?—