MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION
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! 'Twas there you'd see the new Polishemen
Make a scrimmage at half after four;
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.
Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning
Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,
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! 'twas mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
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 haythen Jews;
'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
All jools from his jasey to his di'mond boots.
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
The famale heiress, Miss Anjä-ly Coutts.
And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking 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,
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,
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.
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,
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,
Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown;
Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow;
And Sir George Smart, oh! he played a Consarto,
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 dhrink your health!"
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed 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 –
"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,
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 raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
And the swate trombones, with their silver tones;
But Lord Rolle was rolling, 'twas mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his bones!
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,
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!"
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,
Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry.
Richard Harris Barham
Sweet Nea! - for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I've lain an hour awake,
And can't compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty's gentle light
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,
Some witchery o'er my dreaming!
Because we've pass'd some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances;
Because we love old Beaumont's plays,
And old Froissart's romances !
Because whene'er I hear your words
Some pleasant feeling lingers; Because I think your heart has cords That vibrate to your fingers!
Because you've got those long, soft curls,
I've sworn should deck my goddess;
Because you're not, like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and bodice;
Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little child and you
Would make one's home so cozy!
Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because I think you'd rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an earl,
And a coronet beside you!
Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting;
Because you have not learnt to talk
Of flowers, and Poonah-painting;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;
Because I know you'd sometimes choose
To dine on simple mutton!
On me he shall ne'er put a ring,
So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble
For I was but eighteen in spring,
While his age exactly is double.
He's but in his thirty-sixth year,
Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,
And should you refuse him, my dear,
May you die an old maid without pity!
His figure, I grant you, will pass,
And at present he's young enough plenty;
But when I am sixty, alas!
Will not he be a hundred and twenty?
Charles Graham Halpine
Just take a trifling handful, O philosopher!
Of magic matter: give it a slight toss over
The ambient æther and I don't see why
You shouldn't make a sky.
O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!
Thick London fog how easy 'tis to dissipate,
And make the most pea-soupy day as clear
As Bass's brightest beer!
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