1.
All the gods of love are shouting
In my heart, and blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
Not the queen of Otaheite
Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty
To convert; no, she I mean
Is a wild untutor’d beauty.
Twice in every week appears she,
All her subjects quite entrancing
In that dear Jardin Mabille,
Waltzes and the polka dancing.
Majesty in all her footsteps,
Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,
Quite a princess every inch,
Whichsoever way you take her.
Thus she dances—gods of love are
In my heart all blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”