Beneath the gaslight's fickle glow,  
Where velvet curtains framed the stage,  
The music halls began their show,  
A raucous pulse of a gilded age.  

The air was thick with smoke and cheer,  
A crowd of toil-worn faces came,  
To laugh, to cry, to disappear,  
From hardship’s grind, from life’s dull chain.  

The comic sang his well-worn tune,  
Of mishaps grand and love awry,  
The crowd roared loud, as they would swoon,  
A joy bought cheap, though laughs ran high.  

A singer took her stance, alone,  
Sequins flashing, voice of gold,  
She’d sing of love, her tender tone  
Softened hearts that hardships dulled.  

The dancers tapped on boards worn thin,  
Each step rehearsed for bread and fame,  
Their smiles hid the ache within,  
For fleeting cheers, they played the game.  

Backstage, the air was stale and dim,  
A frenzied hum of rushed affairs,  
The greasepaint smeared, the lights grew grim,  
Dreams floated with the dust-streaked air.  

The halls were lifelines, rough and bright,  
For miners, millers, dockside men,  
A break from toil, a night’s respite,  
Before the labor called again.  

And though the artists dreamed of more—  
Of West End fame, of Broadway’s shine,  
The halls became their daily war,  
A fleeting love, a thin lifeline.  

The stage, their world; applause, their wage,  
Their laughter loud, their songs so clear,  
The music halls, both cage and page,  
For lives well-lived, though lost to years.