“Her Grace, the Duchess-Mother pouts,
And General Conroy’s in the dumps,
He dreams no more of Ins-and-Outs,
His suit is now no longer trumps.
The little Princes in a flutter,
Throw all their whips and tops away,
And quarrel with their bread and butter,
And mope and sulk the live-long day.
The whiskered Ernest rubs his eyes,
Poor Georgie Cumberland loudly groans,