  I SING of the People’s Palace, a tale of Arabian nights, A place where the toiling masses could feast on all true delights. It was opened with morning lectures, and closed with an evening hymn, And the Bishop of London whispered it was just the place for him. It was open for recreation from nine until six p.m., Which times, said the working classes, were specially fixed for them. It was closed for the day on Sunday, and on Saturday afternoon, So the very select declared it “a perfectly priceless boon.” To cater for men and women who toil for their daily bread, The beer of their hearts was vetoed, and sherbet was sold instead, With counters for almond hardbake and liquorice in the stick. The pictures were all improving, the moral of all was “grand,” And at intervals there were concerts by the Blue Ribbon Army band; With exhibits in big glass cases of terrible temperance facts, And the entrance fee included a bundle of stirring tracts. It was built at the lavish outlay of a dozen of million pounds Which included the church and chapel, and the mission-hall in the grounds; But as nobody wanted sermons, and sherbet, and ginger-beer, It was sold at a great reduction to a philanthropic peer. And in less than a twelvemonth after the Palace had reared its head, On the top of it proudly floated a banner of vulgar red; And General Booth was shouting, and having a grand “all night” In our latest “gigantic failure,” the Palace of No Delight. |
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