ITH Stevenson we must agree,
Who found the world so full of things,
That all should be, or so said he,
As happy as a host of Kings;
Yet few so fortunate as not
To envy Bluff King Henry's lot.
A polished monarch, through and through,
Tho' somewhat lacking in religion,
Who joined a courtly manner to
The figure of a pouter pigeon;
And was, at time of feast or revel
A ... well ... a perfect little devil!
But tho' his vices, I'm afraid,
Are hard for modern minds to swallow,
Two lofty virtues he displayed,
Which we should do our best to follow:—
A passion for domestic life,
A cult for what is called The Wife.
He sought his spouses, North and South.
Six times (to make a misquotation)
He managed, at the Canon's mouth,
To win a bubble reputation;
And ev'ry time, from last to first,
His matrimonial bubble burst!
Six times, with wide, self-conscious smile
And well-blacked, button boots, he entered
The Abbey's bust-congested aisle,
With ev'ry eye upon him centred;
Six times he heard, and not alone,
The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.
Six sep'rate times (or three times twice),
In order to complete the marriage,
'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,
He sought the shelter of his carriage;
Six times the bride, beneath her veil,
Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."
Within the limits of one reign,
Six females of undaunted bearing,
Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,
Enjoyed the privilege of sharing
A conjugal career so chequer'd
It almost constitutes a record!