A Lay of Drury Lane

Great Smithius of Drury Lane, By cape and truncheon swore That Bold Gustavus Brookius Should perdu lie no more. By staff and cape he swore it, And named his opening night, And sent his messengers abroad, Each with a pile of orders stored, To summon all they might.

East and west, and south and north, The messengers repair; Some hie them to the Regal Oak, Some to the Arms of Eyre. Shame on the false theatrical Who would refuse to come, When bold Gustavus Brookius Enters the “Drama’s Home!”

The gallery-boys and pittites Are pouring in amain, And struggling in a turbid mass, The theatre doors they gain. From many a noisome alley, From many a crowded court, Great G. V. B.’s supporters Have hastened to the sport.

From Kingsland’s leafy quarters, From Camden’s noble town, From where Belgravia’s daughters On humble men look down; From Islington the merry, From Kensington the slow, To meet the great Gustavus The many-headed go.

The patrons of the Surrey, Who e’er in shirt-sleeves sit, While the refreshing foaming stout Is handed round the pit, Yield up their old allegiance, And join the swelling train, Crossing the Bridge of Waterloo, To meet at Drury Lane.

Ho! fiddlers, scrape your catgut! Ho! drummers, use your strength! HE comes, whose name on every wall Measures six feet in length! Who, though perchance he cannot With Shakespeare move your souls, Will gain your heartiest plaudits By gifts of soup and coals!

Come, Phelps, come crouch unto him; Come, Kean, and do the same; You, famous by your own good deeds, You by your father’s name! Crouch to the great Gustavus, Who has become the rage, And proved himself, by feats of alms, King of the British stage.