Then none would hear of waiting;
Then all were wild to go;
Then did the ticket offices
With claimants overflow;
And every British lady
Spared neither rhyme nor reason,
To wring from consort or from sire
A ticket for the season.
Bright are the silks and satins
That gleam in Howell’s panes;
Matchless the lace of Hayward,
The ribbon at Redmayne’s;
Best of all gloves are Melnotte’s,
That mortal ever wore;
Best of all treats a young bride loves
A Continental tour.
But now, o’er Howell’s counter,
No fairy buyers lean;
No snowy fingers test the lace,
Or ribbons blue and green;
In vain are Melnotte’s prices
Raised up to three-and-three;
And vainly advertises
The Steamboat Company!
This year no golden harvest
Shall prima donnas reap;
This year no Baden Croupier
Shall shear the travelling sheep;
And the landladies of Brighton,
Shall wail o’er cliff and down,
Those cruel season tickets,
That keep the world in town!
. . . . .
But meanwhile, preparations
Are briskly carried on;
And agonized exhibitors
Are told they must begone.
The floor is swept and sprinkled,
The panes are polished bright,
And all that isn’t finished
Is hustled out of sight.
Then come the season tickets,
In carriage, cab, and brougham;
And long before eleven,
There is scarcely standing room;
And as at every instant
The ladies’ ranks increase,
Pretty, to see the skirmishes
They have with the police.
But lo, the cry is “Paxton!”
And as the waves divide,
The Architect of crystal
Comes forth with modest pride.
Well may all voices cheer him,
When they see what he has done;
For such a graceful victory
No mortal ever won!
Now Statesmen and Ambassadors
From all the globe flock in;
And that warm-hearted gentleman,
The Chinese Mandarin.
And with his gallant comrade,
The first in danger’s van,
Comes England’s white-haired Hero,
To welcome PEACE TO MAN.
But when the face of Arthur
Is seen amid the throng,
A cheer that shakes the crystal roof,
Bursts forth the ranks among.
On the benches smiles no beauty
But would his hand have kissed;
For the fairest lip were honoured
To touch that brown old fist.
And when weak-minded foreigners
Ask what it’s all about,
With what enthusiastic pride
All haste to point him out!
“Now, welcome, welcome, Arthur!”
The greetings still increase:
“Thrice welcome on thy birthday morn,
“To the Waterloo of Peace!”
. . . . .
Since five o’clock this morning,
Nay, some have said, before,
The folks have been collecting
By myriads and more.
Franticly strive officials
To keep the passage free:
As well might Brighton lobsters
Attempt to stop the sea!
For like a herd scholastic,
Let loose from desk and form,
John Bull and all his family,
Carry the Park by storm.
From Palace e’en to Palace,
Can only heads be seen,
That pushing past, in wild career,
Policeman, Guardsman, Grenadier,
Rush on to meet the Queen.