The Olde City of Cork

At the Butter Exchange Is grand commerce in motion Yet be under no illusion Of the merchant’s potion ‘Clip, Clop,’ Go horses’ shoes On the cobble stones of Lancaster Quay From nearby office windows Proprietors observe with glee The little children of Sunday’s Well Are taught a well-known adage That they must hold their balance Whilst traversing Daly’s Bridge Great ships unload boxes of tea Outside the Customs House Bringing Ceylon’s finest To the financier’s spouse When evening strikes The Savings Bank closes And across the river An alderman’s motion proposes The Corporation tram Carries the workers to dinner Their journey brightened By a passing street singer Yet throughout the city Lies an abundance of misery A reminder of poverty And economic bewitchery