* WHEN LONDON CALLS! *

There's a voice that calls to Mecca, there's a voice that calls to Rome.

( O the Holiest of Holies! O the Temple and the Shrine! )

There's a bleating from a pasture, and it calls a wand'rer home.

( O the friskings of the yearlings, and the lowing of the kine! )

There's a penetrating whisper that can rise above the gale

From the cot of thatch and plaster, from the oaken-gabled hall,

From the limpid lake of silver in the verdant velvet vale,

From the shamrock and the heather,

Hear the call!

There's a voice that calls the waster, when the doors of home are shut.

( O the voice of club and chamber, and the arc-light burning blue! )

There's a voice that calls the trooper in his daub and wattle hut.

( O the midnight cabs that rattle from the Strand to Waterloo! )

There's a voice for ever calling from the Square and from the

Slum,

From the Hornsey Rise to Brixton, from St. Saviour's to St.

Paul's.

‘ Tis the never-changing message of the everlasting‘ Come’

To the brick and to the mortar.

London calls!

You may still the voice of conscience, and suppress the blush of shame.

( O the deed that made you outlaw! O the folly and the sin! )

But never man ignored it when the call to London came.

( The call from belfry tower! O the clanging, banging din! )

‘ Tis the wooded green of Greenwich with the deer among the fern.

‘ Tis the bleak, blank streets of Lambeth, where the drizzling fog-mist falls.

It's a weary aching whisper, and it murmurs,‘ O return

To the Elegance, the Squalor.

London calls!’

‘ Tis the swelling roar of Epsom, with the backers seven deep.

( O the rush around the Corner, and the finish on the Straight! )

‘ Tis the tinkling hum of Henley as it snuggles down to sleep.

( O the light-lined laughing river, with its fairy-fancied fete! )

‘ Tis the growl of Ratcliffe Highway,‘ tis the lisp of Rotten

Row;

‘ Tis the beauty that entrances,‘ tis the horror that appals;

‘ Tis the firemen's horses tearing to the midnight sky aglow;

It's a vague and restless — something.

London calls!

It is early morning Fleet Street, when the throbbing presses fly.

( O the Father of the Chapel! O the ticking, talking tape! )

‘ Tis the universal High Street, where the world may see and buy.

( O the steamboat of Newcastle! O the feather of the Cape! )

‘ Tis the heart of all creation, where the veins of commerce meet;

‘ Tis the centre seat in gall'ry,‘ tis the booked and numbered stalls;

‘ Tis the barrow in Whitechapel,‘ tis the brougham in Regent

Street;

‘ Tis the Commonplace — the Novel.

London calls!

‘ Tis the glitter and the jingle on the Foreign Office stairs.

( O the starred and gartered Levee! O the Rulers of the Land! )

‘ Tis the crowd about the stretcher and the burden that it bears.

( O the ward in darkened silence! O the swiftly running sand! )

‘ Tis the message of the letter,‘ tis the message of the wire;

‘ Tis the dainty hand that types it,‘ tis the awkward fist that scrawls;

‘ Tis the memory that sickens,‘ tis the thought that burns‘ like fire;

‘ Tis the life that's worth the living!

London calls!

‘ Tis the cheering of the Commons and the cry of‘ Who goes home?’

( O the bell that rings Division! O the seat beneath the card! )

‘ Tis the choir-boys’ voices rising to the lofty, painted dome.

( O the flutter of the pigeons in the flagged and mossy yard! )

‘ Tis the Sabbath bells that echo down the silent city streets;

‘ Tis the Steel inside the Velvet!‘ Tis the stroking hand that mauls!

‘ Tis the Tutor, it's the Master. It prepares and it completes!

It is London — and it's LONDON!

And it calls!