A VISION OF ROYALTY.
(Written after a surfeit of the Illustrated Papers.)
Ye Royalties of England, how beautiful ye are!
The special artists claim you, they track you from afar.
In uniforms and diamonds, with sceptre and with crown,
In many a picture-paper those artists set you down.
And thus the British public may gaze upon its Queen—
They make her small, but dignified, of most majestic mien.
She smiles—the artist marks her; she frowns—the artist quails,
And soothes himself by drawing H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.
He draws him at foundation stones, a trowel in his hand
(The point of silver trowels I ne'er could understand);
He draws him opening railways, or turning sods of grass,
And he draws him as a Colonel, in helmet and cuirasse.
We see him dressed for London, a-riding in the Row—
I wonder if he ever finds his London pleasures slow;
And we see him down at Sandringham, his country-home in Norfolk,
Where the Royal pair are much beloved, especially by poor folk.
And oft at public dinners, in Garter and in Star,
We see his Royal Highness enjoying his cigar.
I wish they wouldn't vary quite so much his Royal figure.
For they sometimes make him leaner, and sometimes make him bigger.
But, be that as it may, I feel that, while my life endures,
I know by heart my Prince's face, my future King's contours.
A stiff examination in the Prince of Wales I'd pass,
And in all his princely attitudes they'd give me a first-class.
The Duke of York, our Sailor Prince, I think I've got him pat;
I've never seen him face to face, but what's the odds of that?
In illustrated papers I have watched him every day
Since he went and popped the question to the pretty Princess May.
I've seen them plain or coloured in fifty different styles,
Just like a pair of turtle-doves, all bills and coos and smiles.
I never saw a turtle-dove that smiled upon its pet afore,
But he who writes of bridal pairs is bound to use the metaphor.
Oh, Princess May, oh, Princess May, in crayon or in oil you
Are loveable and beautiful, they can't avail to spoil you.
They did their worst, and did it well, those special-artist wretches,
To make you like a stolid block in all their special sketches.
So this, my meek petition, to those artists is addressed,
Give Royalties of every sort a little welcome rest.
I cannot bear my Royal ones—of loyalty I'm full—
To look like wax and sawdust, with limbs of cotton-wool.
And thus, when next you draw them (oh, may the time be long)
To make them human beings will surely not be wrong.
And if you'll take a hint from me you'll earn a nation's thanks,
By drawing these prize princely ones a little less like blanks.
Lines in Pleasant Places.—Sala's Journal, full of interesting and entertaining matter, has lately been giving very sensible advice as to Palmistry, which is again in vogue. The Palmists appear to be doing so uncommonly well just now, that this year will be memorable, for them at least, as "the Palmy days" of chiromancy.
