Then, with polished sword-blades glancing, goulden tags an’ feathers dancing,
Came the princely escort prancing all beside a gilded coach
Drawn by eight crame ponies—Ginnett or Bill Holland wasn’t in it,
Was the cry the very minnit that procession did approach.
And Victoria, Britain’s Queen, there, of her subjects’ eyes was seen there,
Lookin’ glorious and resplendent in her Sunday satin gown,
Wid a dacent white lace bonnet wid a bunch of feathers on it,
Though ’tis said that Salisbury begged her on his knees to wear her crown.
There was Our Princess the blessin’! She’s the wan for stylish dhressin,’
Wid her charrums that do be increasin’ as the years go rowlin’ by;