The Imported Servant

The Blue Sky arches oer mountain and valley,     The scene is as fair as a scene can be,     But Im breaking my heart for a London alley,     And fogs that shall never come back to me.     I choke with tears when the day is dying,     The sunsets grand and the stars are bright;     But its O! for the smell of the fried fish frying     By the flaring stalls on a Saturday night.     And this, oh, this is the lonely sequel     Of all I pictured would come to pass!     They are treating me here as a friend and equal,     But theyd say in London that theyre no class.     When I think of their kindness my tears flow faster,     The girls are free and the chaps are grand:     Its the boss and the missus for mistress and master,     And they may be right, But I dont understand.     I see the air in its warm pulsation     On sandstone cliffs where the ocean dips,     But Im miles and miles from the railway station     Where trains run down to the wharves and ships.     Those streets are dingy and dark and narrow,     The soot comes down with the rain and sleet;     But, O! for the sight of a costers barrow,     And Sunday morning in Chapel Street!