With conscious proide
I stud insoide
And look'd the World's Great Fair in.
Until me sight
Was dazzled quite,
And couldn't see for staring.
There's holy saints
And window paints,
By Maydiayval Pugin;
Alhamborough Jones
Did paint the tones
Of yellow and gambouge in.
There's fountains there
And crosses fair;
There's water-gods with urrns;
There's organs three,
To play, d'ye see,
"God save the Queen," by turns.
There's statues bright
Of marble white,
Of silver and of copper,
And some in zink,
And some, I think,
That isn't over proper.
There's staym Ingynes,
That stand in lines,
Enormous and amazing,
That squeal and snort,
Like whales in sport,
Or elephants a-grazing.
There's carts and gigs,
And pins for pigs;
There's dibblers and there's harrows,
And plows like toys,
For little boys,
And illegant wheel-barrows.
For them genteels
Who ride on wheels,
There a plenty to indulge 'em,
There's Droskys snug
From Paytersbug
And vayhycles from Belgium.
There's Cabs on Stands,
And Shandthry danns;
There's wagons from New York here;
There's Lapland Sleighs,
Have cross'd the seas,
And Jaunting Cars from Cork here.
Amazed I pass
Prom glass to glass,
Deloighted I survey 'em;
Fresh wondthers grows
Beneath me nose
In this sublime Musayum,
Look, here's a fan
From far Japan,
A saber from Damasco;
There's shawls ye get
From far Thibet,
And cotton prints from Glasgow.