Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong-
From curiosity doth wisdom flow:
For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long,
The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.
Reader, didst ever see a water-spout?
'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No."
Well then! he makes a most infernal rout;
Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below,
With huge proboscis reaching from the sky,
As if he meant to drink the ocean dry:
At length so full he can't hold one drop more-.
He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar
On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship,
And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep:
Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews,
Suck from the tribe of officers the news,
Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter,
And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!
I always would advise folks to ask questions;
For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge:
Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions,
Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college;
Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges,
Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.
The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell,
Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well,
Questions are then the windlass and the rope
That pull the grave old gentlewoman up:
Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions,
Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.
Now having well employed his royal lungs
On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs,
The king and Co. sat down to a collation
Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation.
Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork,
That merciless fell like tomahawks to work,
And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle,
While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.
The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath
Amidst the regiments of death,
Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round,
And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer
"Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear,
You're of an ancient family—renowned—
What? what? I'm told that you're a limb
Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym:
What Whitbread, is it true what people say?
Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae?
I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes—
A snuffling round-headed society—
Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats—
Bunyans, and Practices of Piety:
Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare—
Rather see cash—yes, yes—than books of prayer.
Thirtieth of January don't you FEED?
Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."
Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish,
Whole hosts o'erturned—and seized on all supplies;
The royal visitors expressed a wish
To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.
But first the monarch, so polite,
Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT.
Unwilling in the list to be enrolled,
Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg,
Then to his generous sovereign made a leg,
And said, "He was afraid he was too old.
He thanked however his most gracious king,
For offering to make him SUCH A THING."
But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear!
It was not age that bade the man of beer
The proffered honor of the monarch shun:
The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright,
Had almost made him damn the NAME of knight,
A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.
He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed,
Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:—
A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye;
And though a Presbyterian, can not think
Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink)
Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!
Now from the table with Caesarean air
Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow,
When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair,
Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow.
Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops,
Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops;
Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips
That never hurt the royal knees and hips;
For hips and knees of queens are sacred things,
That only bend on gala days
Before the best of kings,
When odes of triumph sound his praise.—