The Book of Humorous Verse Part 115

The towers and fanes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, Saint Payther's, Room.

And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant sh.o.r.es, Her Injians and Canajians, And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His n.o.ble Honour Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pa.s.s, And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones, Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-G.o.ds with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, "G.o.d save the Queen," by turrns.

There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym injynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows, And ploughs like toys For little boys, And illigant wheelbarrows.

For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em: There's droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's cabs on stands And shandthrydanns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And jaunting cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pa.s.s From gla.s.s to gla.s.s, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan From far j.a.pan, A sabre from Damasco: There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Behay; Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And gingerbread and jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins fill'd with roses; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints, And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's las.h.i.+ns more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber!

Ah, Judy thru!

With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it!

And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it!

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition.

_W. M. Thackeray._

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?"

"That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?

But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.

She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.

Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.

And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.

_W. M. Thackeray._

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT

An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.