The quiet of the woodland way
Bird-broken is by night and day,
But ne’er a song-bird trills its lay
In Gerrard Street, Soho.
No breeze here bears the babel roar—
Life’s ocean, tideless evermore,
Lies dead upon the silent shore
Of Gerrard Street, Soho.
The hermit seeking holy calm
May soothe his soul with Gilead balm
Beneath the desert’s one green palm
In Gerrard Street, Soho.
But ’twas, oh, ’twas not always thus
Men flying from life’s fume and fuss
In urbe found a peaceful rus
In Gerrard Street, Soho.
There was a time when shout and shriek
And song and oath and drunken freak
Made matters lively all the week
In Gerrard Street, Soho.
Then, too, alas! the Sabbath eve
Heard sounds to make the pious grieve,
And quiet tenants thought they’d leave
In Gerrard Street, Soho.
When came the change from noise to peace,
When did the clattering hansom cease,
When rose the value of a lease
In Gerrard Street, Soho?
When came that sense of perfect rest
Which makes the region doubly blest?
’Twas when, as members’ oaths attest,
The Pelicans first built their nest
In Gerrard Street, Soho!