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.