  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! |
|
