| |
| HERE’S the gold cup all bossy with satyrs and saints, | |
| And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints!) | |
| From the platriest spoon to the costliest thing, | |
| We ’ll melt it all down for the use of the king. | |
| |
| Here ’s the chalice stamp’d over with sigil and cross,— | 5 |
| Some day we ’ll make up to the chapel the loss. | |
| Now bring me my father’s great emerald ring, | |
| For I ’ll melt down the gold for the good of the king. | |
| |
| And bring me the casket my mother has got, | |
| And the jewels that fall to my Barbara’s lot; | 10 |
| Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing, | |
| For we ’re helping to coin the gold for the king. | |
| |
| This dross we ’ll transmute into weapons of steel, | |
| Temper’d blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel; | |
| And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring, | 15 |
| We ’ll be glad to remember this deed for the king. | |
| |
| Bring the hawk’s silver bells and the nursery spoon, | |
| The crucible’s ready—we ’re nothing too soon; | |
| For I hear the horse neigh that shall carry the thing | |
| That ’ll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king. | 20 |
| |
| There go my old spurs, and the old silver jug,— | |
| ’T was just for a moment a pang and a tug; | |
| But now I am ready to dance and to sing, | |
| To think I ’ve thrown gold in the chest of my king. | |
| |
| The earrings lose shape, and the coronet too, | 25 |
| I feel my eyes dim with a sort of a dew. | |
| Hurrah for the posset dish!—Everything | |
| Shall run into bars for the use of the king. | |
| |
| That spoon is a sword, and this thimble a pike; | |
| It ’s but a week’s garret in London belike— | 30 |
| Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring | |
| With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king. | |
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