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Poem	My Pa and Ma their honeymoon Passed in an Andulasian June, And though produced in Drury Lane, I must have been conceived in Spain. Now having lapsed from fair estate, A coster's is my sorry fate; Yet on my barrow lo! I wheel The golden harvest of Saville. "Sweet Spanish oranges!" I cry. Ah! People deem not as they buy, That in a dream a steel guitar I strum beside the Alcázar, And at the Miralda I meet A signorita honey sweet, And stroll beneath the silver moon Like Pa and Ma that magic June. Alack-a-day! I fear I'll never Behold the golden Guadalquivir; Yet here in Brixton how I feel My spiritual home's Saville; And hold the hope that some day I Will visit there, if just to die; Feeling I have not lived in vain To crown my days in sunny Spain.
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