Oh! merry day of jubilee to every little sinner, When ev'ry one receives a bun and goes without a dinner. Ah, happy England! thou'rt indeed a charitable nation, Thy charities thou dost without the slightest ostentation; How proud it makes a Briton feel to view this glorious sight, Tho' some there are too dull to share the exquisite delight. I heard a surly cynic once thus vent his angry spleen, As he with jaundic'd eye beheld the animated scene:— "If this be Christian Charity, who loves abroad to roam, "I wish, instead of coming here, that she had stay'd at home. "I'm sure she has no feeling for those wretched little dears, "Or she'd not make them into jam all in that place of _tiers_. "Whate'er Sir Robert Peel may say, or Tory folks may shout, "I'm sure the 'pressure' from within is worse than that 'without.' "But little girls may swoon away, and little boys may bawl, "None, in this age of intellect, now care for a _child's call_. "The cannibals, who eat up folks, have always made a point "To kill their two legg'd animals before they dress'd a joint; "But Christian anthropophagites possess a nicer goût, "And cook their flesh alive whene'er they make a human stew." Thus did he snarl and grumble at this glorious institution; Some enemy he must have been to Britain's constitution, For he who'd seek to work a change by pleading for humanity, Must either be disloyal or the victim of insanity.
Hip! hip! hurrah! What a glorious day! They're proclaiming the Queen— Magnificent scene! Look—there sits the Mayor! That's his worship, I'll swear. The bells are clanging; The cannons are banging; The big drums are playing; The trumpets are braying; The cymbals are ringing; The people are singing, "Victoria victorious, Happy and glorious. Long-to-reign-orious." The Guards are advancing, Kicking and prancing. First the videttes On their chargers—such pets! Then comes the horse-doctor, As grave as a proctor: Then four pioneers, With their axes—such dears! And as sharp, ay, as needles. And then come the beadles (Messieurs Tomkins and Startin) Of St. James and St. Martin. After them the Guards' band, So fierce and so grand. The Marshals march next, With their tits much perplex'd. Then the Sergeants-at-Arms, Looking full of alarms; And the Heralds, whose dresses Get in terrible messes. Her Majesty's Garter Comes figuring _arter_, With his splendid gold tabard, And sword in his scabbard; And behind him is sergeants, Who to-day think they _are_ gents. While the Horse-guards appear To bring up the rear. But let's change the scene a bit; And look at the Queen a bit, Giving audience to all, Great, middling, and small. Among the paraders Are the royalty traders: Her Majesty's hatter, Gunsmith, and cravatter, Royal builders of britchkas, Brutus wigs, and false whiskers. The Queen's top-boot maker, And her "own undertaker," Who says, with much fervour, He'll be "happy to serve her." Then at night, what a sight, When the lamps are a-light, Green, red, blue, and white; And transparencies bright Shine from attic to floor— There's a thousand or more. In every street Blazing lions you meet; And, in letters of flame, VICTORIA'S dear name. But see! there's a row In the Poultry, I vow! The windows are smashing, The shutters go dash in: The mob's in a rage With poor Mister Page; Whose luminous star, With a "W. R." Has excited their wonder, And raised all this thunder. See! Page now, in tears, At the window appears; And, with uplifted hands, Their pleasure demands. "Shame! radical! traitor! Wretch! spy! agitator!" Are the sounds that arise: And at last some one cries, "What means 'W. R.' A-top of your star?" "Lawk! is that all?" cries Page, Almost bursting with rage, "Why, confound your necks! It's 'WICTORIA REX!'"