In Adderley Street a big archway is seen,
Symbol of triumph, and smothered in green,
Flags waving gaily above it, and near
Crowds of all sorts of people to see and to cheer;
Then coming next on
The house of the sexton,
Past the church, and the banks,
And the building that ranks
Midst the finest of Cape Town attempts architectural,
Though the order that claims it is purely conjectural,
Up to the gateway
At foot of the straight way
Of oaks now all leafless, and passed the Museum
With its curious contents (if the Prince could but see ’em),
To Government House, where His Highness alights,
And sees, lucky Prince, the best sight of all sights,
Such a bevy of fair ones, in costumes so neat,
All murmuring, “How handsome! how charming! how sweet.”
I doubt whether prince ever had such a treat.
And next the reception! How tell of the pushing,
The fishing out cards, and the squeezing and crushing,
The bows that are made and the looks that are given,
The gorgeous “get ups” of those who have striven
To display their own grandeur as well as their loyalty,
By wonderful ties to astonish young royalty!
And the ladies, the dears,
Abandoning fears,
Leaving benches outside
Through the windows they glide,
Rush into the chamber like fairies demented,
Resolved to be present—though not yet presented.
And all the men swear,
And the ladies declare,
The former “by Jove,” and the latter “’pon honour,”
That to look on that handsome young face is a bonheur,
So great that they feel at that moment they doubly can
Pity a people that’s only republican.
The sun’s gone to bed,
And gas lamps instead,
And lamps blue, white, and red,
Such a flood of light shed
As drive notions of darkness clean out of your head.
Pictures, devices,
Like very large slices
From very large twelfth-cakes, illustrate the crisis.
A lady of very extensive dimensions,
With a helmet and spear of most warlike pretensions,
But without crinoline,
Is everywhere seen
Sitting down on her shield by a sea very green;
And lending a hand
To assist to the land
A tall, thin, blue gentleman, dressed very grand.
And one in an able way
Represents Table Bay,
And a very large dolphin with greenest of tails,
And fins up on end, p’r’aps to serve him for sails,
And another blue gentleman stuck on its back,
Though you’d fancy yourself you’d be off in a crack
If you ventured to sea on so fishy a smack.
And mermaids are there,
With long flowing hair,
And their scaly green tails sticking up in the air;
And Neptune with trident, with mighty long beard,
Hails a nice little midshipman, looking half “skeer’d.”
Stores, mansions, and shops—all’s a blaze of bright light,
And crowds—black, white, tawney—look on with delight
Save where the long range
Of the Merchants’ Exchange
Is all in the dark, and the people that stare up
Hear that somehow the electric light won’t give a flare-up.
There’s the morning gun!
There’s the rising sun!
Put out all the lamps—the fun’s over and done.
The city’s done all that a good city can,
For one day, at least, has turned out to a man.
There’s more work before her of much the same sort,
All sorts of revelry, all sorts of sport.
But my muse for a time flits away from these shores
To take breath, or, more nauticé, “lie on her oars.”
But she cries,
As she flies
To her home in the skies,
As she ever shall cry till her good lungs shall fail her,
“Hail, Son of Victoria! hail, Royal Sailor!”
MORAL.
By the way, as she flew,
I may say, entre nous,
Something fell from her pocket: it looked like a screw
Of tobacco; but though she’s got capital jaws,
I never yet found that her ladyship “chaws.”
I picked it up carefully, undid the roll,
And found nothing in it except a small scroll,
Which is just in these words—for what I thought a “quid” is—
“Happy the Nation Whose Princes Are Middies!”
A. W. Cole.