The number three bus goes to Sandymount Tower
The number three tram did the same,
A habit of transport, outdated by time
Since the Tower and the Strand lost their fame.

For fame they enjoyed, there were favourite spots
For bathing and paddling and sport,
In the thirties and forties, this holiday place
On the week-ends the City’s resort.

From Pillar to Tower ‘twas a trupenny fare
And just half for the kids over five,
With bucket and spade and an old pair of knicks,
And a sing-song until you’d arrive.

In the holiday season the Strand would be black
With people all over the place,
If you didn’t come early it really was hard
To find ‘midst the throng, a free space.

‘Neath the wall was a beach of white silvery sand
And for miles a clean strand you could roam,
As the tide slowly ebbed, so the crowd would increase
As it came to the wall, they went home.

If you fished you could dig the ragworm in the sand
And the lug-worm you’d find now and then,
There were cockle and mussels as big as your fist
And razor-bait deep in its den.

You could set a long line near the old cockle lake
Bucket handles would hold it in place,
And the tide of the night brought a harvest of fish
That varied from conger to plaice.

The crowds have stopped coming, the Strand it has changed
Its varied attractions did wane,
And the bus makes the journey, much lighter to-day
To the tower and its now faded fame.