A Civic Ode.
ALDERMAN HALE—though slightly
pale—
Seem'd nevertheless determined
To do his duty on Lord Mayor's Day;
So he wash'd his face in a careful way
(Though he hated anything like display),
And he brush'd his hair—of a brownish gray.
His robe was scarlet, and people say,
That its edges were thickly ermined.
But let us leave him for a while,
And hurry to Guildhall,
Where stout police (in single file),
In tight cravat and shiny tile,
Parade before the gloomy pile—
Right stalwart men and tall.
See, in their garb of modest green,
Around the court-yard stand
Our Volunteers I Ah, ne'er, I ween,
Were truer, braver warriors seen,
To fight for Alderman or Queen,
And guard our native land.
Tis twelve o'clock; the bells of Bow are clanging in the steeple,
While visible anxiety prevails among the people.
The cannons in St James's Park announce the noontide hour;
And the time is also mentioned by the cannons at the Tower.
It comes: the wish'd-for pageant comes! Observe the mailéd
knights.
Observe the squires who follow them (in somewhat seedy tights).
Observe the noble chargers, too. Methinks I've heard it said,
That E. T. Smith doth furnish them at three-and-six a head.
Make way there for the Volunteers!—make way there for the
Band!
Their home is on the battlefield; their march is "In the Strand."
Make way, too, for the Aldermen, recumbent in their coaches,
And make more way than ever for the gingerbread approaches!
Then, from all the people there,
A shout arose and rent the air—
"Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious;
Fill him with turtle,
And crown him with myrtle,
And long live the Great Lord Mayor!!!"