Here's "Wax and Wick-toria" (_Cowan, in gloria_), "May she long wear her Crown (_Alderman Brown_), "Ourselves and the Queen" (_Pellatt and Green_), "She'll ne'er have her match if she reads the _Dispatch_" (_says that jolly farmer, Alderman Harmer_), "Success to Regina and Essence of Bina" (_inscription good, by Matthew Wood_), "Long live the Queen, to drink Black and Green" (_Mr. Twining, in bright lamps shining_), "None shall dare to affront her" (_Sir Claudius Hunter_), "In a lot we'll knock down all the foes of the crown" (_a desperate go, by Farebrother and Co._).
But none of the sight gave such delight as the Aldermen and the Queen, And throughout the land, such spectacles grand will never again be seen.
Mysterious Murphy, whose transcendent skill Makes hail, rain, vapour, Come forth obsequious to your will,— At least on paper,— Tell us what famous college Bestow'd your wondrous knowledge! Perchance your learned sconce found it _at once_; Perhaps _by degree_ of T.C.D. Some say the Prince of Evil has been too civil, And that, in change for all your knowledge boasted You're doomed—like other murphies—to be roasted. Some think, like me for one, You've kissed the Blarney Stone; But though your blunders make a pretty rout, Sure, if you're right, by _second_ sight, You well may be, _at first_, a little out.
But cock your weather eye athwart the sky, Of wind and storm disclose your store, For one year more, And tell us true.— Led by your lies the ships _lie to_, Or snugly _arbour'd_, with _bower anchor_ ride, And lose the tide— Their funnies near, the watermen look sad, Short cut or shag alone their sorrow lulls, In sunshine read your page of weather bad, And shake their heads, for no one wants their sculls. But, sad to think, the washerwoman's pain, Praying for rain, And vainly hoping, as for showers she sniffs, To fill her _butts_ with your delusive _ifs_. Ah, me! I sought the throngs in Beulah's bowers, Seduced from home by your _fair_ fiction, But found none _out_, amid the drizzling showers, Save my sad self and your prediction. Now if again the weather's care you take on, Don't try your flam on, But if you wish to save your bacon, Give us less gammon.
Some poet has observed, that if any man would write down what has really happened to him in this mortal life, he would be sure to make a good book, though he never had met with a single adventure from his birth to his burial; how much more, then, must I, who _have_ had adventures, most singular, pathetic, and unparalleled, be able to compile an instructive and entertaining volume for the use of the public!