Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching
sight to see
That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his
knee;
To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to
gape
With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the
grape!
They passed the wine, the sparkling wine—they filled the
goblets up;
Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on
the cup;
And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could
appease,
Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his
knees.
"What want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay Lord
Aberdeen,
"Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups
between?
I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's
warbling lay,
But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-
day?"
Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he
cried,
"Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself
beside?
Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's
vacant crown,
And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London
town!"
"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard
to cry,
And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied
eye;
"Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious
race,
A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's
place!
"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of
Navarre;
And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles
afar?
The hero of a hundred fights———" Then Wellington up
sprung,
"Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold
your tongue!
"By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling
lay,
Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye!
'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot
dine.
Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass
the wine!"
"No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the
Lord of Vaux;
"Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel
song, I know.
Even I myself———" Then rose the cry—"A song, a
song from Brougham!"
He sang,—and straightway found himself alone within
the room.
