Ye bars and gates, ye’re comin’ doon;
No more ye’ll block the freeman’s path,
And make the traveller lose his train,
Or rouse the British cabman’s wrath.
Wi’ lightsome heart we root ye up,
And leave the streets o’ London free;
And there’s but one will mourn your loss,
And that’s his grace the Duke of B.
Portrait of a Prince.
(BY A SOCIETY GOSSIPER.)
He’s the dropsy, he’s the gout,
And he looks like pegging out;
And he’s sobbing and he’s sighing all the day—
All the day.
He is haggard, he is pale,
And his limbs begin to fail,
And his whiskers and moustache are going gray—
Going gray.
He is but a bag of bones,
And he lies awake and groans,
When he’s carried by his valet up to bed—
Up to bed.
He is hollow cheeked and eyed,
And, though everything is tried,
He never sleeps a moment for neuralgia in the head—
In the head.
Bitter tears are in his eyes
Night and morning, as he cries,
“Oh, my health is slowly breaking: I’m so ill—
I’m so ill!
“I shall soon be on the shelf,
For I’m ‘going’ like a Guelph.
Please oblige me with my mixture and a pill—
And a pill.”
(BY HIMSELF.)
Which I simply answer, Rot!
For Wales hasn’t gone to pot.
Please to contradict the rumours that are rife—
That are rife.