LOOK always on the Surrey side
For true dramatic art.
The road is long—the river wide—
But frequent busses start
From Charing Cross and Gracechurch street,
(An inexpensive ride;)
So, if you want an evening's treat,
O seek the Surrey side.
I have been there, and still would go,
As Dr Watts observes;
Although it's not a place, I know,
F or folks with feeble nerves.
Ah me! how many roars I've had—
How many tears I'Ve dried—
At melodramas, good and bad.
Upon the Surrey side.
Can I forget those wicked lords,
Their voices and their calves;
The things they did upon those boards,
And never did by halves:
The peasant, brave though lowly born,
Who constantly defied
Those wicked lords with utter scorn,
Upon the Surrey side?
Can I forget those hearts of oak,
Those model British tars;
Who crack'd a skull or crack'd a joke,
Like true transpontine stars;
Who hornpip'd à la T. P. Cooke,
And sang—at least they tried—
Until the pit and gallery shook,
Upon the Surrey side?
But best of all I recollect
That maiden in distress—
So unimpeachably correct
In morals and in dress—
Who, ere the curtain fell, became
The low-born peasant's bride:
(They nearly always end the same
Upon the Surrey side.)
I gape in Covent Garden's walls,
I doze in Drury Lane;
I strive in the Lyceum stalls
To keep awake—in vain.
There's nought in the dramatic way
That I can quite abide,
Except the pieces that they play
Upon the Surrey side.