| |
| OCH! the Coronation! what celebration | |
| For emulation can with it compare? | |
| When to Westminster the Royal Spinster, | |
| And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair! | |
| ’T was there you’d see the New Polishemen | 5 |
| Make a scrimmage at half after four, | |
| And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys, | |
| All standing round before the Abbey door. | |
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| Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning | |
| Themselves adorning, all by the candlelight, | 10 |
| With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies | |
| And gould and jewels, and rich di’monds bright. | |
| And then approaches five hundred coaches, | |
| With Gineral Dullbeak.—Och! ’t was mighty fine | |
| To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, | 15 |
| With his sword drawn, prancing made them kape the line. | |
| |
| Then the Guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums, | |
| All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, | |
| Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors, | |
| The Prince of Potboys, and great hay-then Jews: | 20 |
| ’T would have made you crazy to see Esterhazy | |
| All jool’s from his jasey to his di’mond boots, | |
| With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer | |
| The famale heiress, Miss Ana-ly Coutts. | |
| |
| And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking | 25 |
| To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame: | |
| And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey | |
| (They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name), | |
| Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading | |
| The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, | 30 |
| And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello, | |
| The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair. | |
| |
| Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, | |
| In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs, | |
| And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians, | 35 |
| And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs. | |
| Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays the Quaker, | |
| All in the gallery you might persave; | |
| But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing, | |
| Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave. | 40 |
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| There was Baron Alten himself exalting, | |
| And Prince Von Schwartzenburg, and many more; | |
| Och! I ’d be bother’d and entirely smother’d | |
| To tell the half of ’em was to the fore; | |
| With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, | 45 |
| And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works; | |
| But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly, | |
| “I ’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!” | |
| |
| Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her | |
| In her purple garaments and her goulden Crown; | 50 |
| Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, | |
| With eight young ladies houlding up her gown. | |
| Sure ’t was grand to see her, also for to he-ar | |
| The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow, | |
| And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play’d a Consarto, | 55 |
| With his four and twenty fiddlers all on a row. | |
| |
| Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up, | |
| For to resave her bounty and great wealth, | |
| Saying, “Plase your glory, great Queen Vic-tory, | |
| Ye ’ll give the Clargy lave to drink your health!” | 60 |
| Then his Riverence, retrating, discoors’d the mating: | |
| “Boys! Here ’s your Queen! deny it if you can; | |
| And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur | |
| Sneezes at that, I ’d like to see the man!” | |
| |
| Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow’rs appealing, | 65 |
| “Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!” | |
| And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her, | |
| All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain. | |
| The great Lord May’r, too, sat in his chair too, | |
| But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, | 70 |
| For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry, | |
| Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. | |
| |
| Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching, | |
| With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee; | |
| And they did splash her with real Macasshur, | 75 |
| And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!” | |
| Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing, | |
| And the sweet trombones, with their silver tones; | |
| But Lord Rolle was rolling;—’t was mighty consoling | |
| To think his Lordship did not break his bones! | 80 |
| |
| Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, | |
| All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop; | |
| With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats, | |
| And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop! | |
| There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, | 85 |
| With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,— | |
| Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough, | |
| The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs. | |
| |
| Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d, | |
| Crying, “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”— | 90 |
| Och! if myself should live to be a hundred, | |
| Sure it ’s the proudest day that I ’ll have seen!— | |
| And now, I ’ve ended, what I pretended, | |
| This narration splendid in swate poe-thry, | |
| Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, | 95 |
| Faith, it ’s myself that ’s getting dhry. | |
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