Who comes from the Saloons of the West, with his warriors around him? He smokes the Dodeen of peace. His face glows with the juice of the Gooseberry. His cheeks are as red as the garments of the bearers of letters on the festival of May? Who is it but the noble Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia? In his train is Sutton the Sambo; and Burke, the hard of hearing, attends him. Mighty in battle are they.
The Lord of Belgravia graces the board: the Bards hail his presence with a song. He quaffs the brown stout of Dublin. The night reels away in revelry. The morning peeps in at the casement; and Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, is glorious with Guinness's.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
DUAN THE SECOND.
Grey grows the air with the Day's young light. With the carmine of Morning the cheek of Heaven is rouged. The Camphine lamp of the Moon has gone out; and turned off is the Gas of the Stars. Yawning the tired Policeman crawls on his rounds.
Hushed are the halls of Evans.
Where art thou, Belgravia's Lord? Thou pride of the West, where art thou? Lo! he comes; but his steps are unsteady with Beer. On the sinewy arms of the dark-skinned Sutton, and Burke, surnamed the Deaf, he leans. From them he bursts of a sudden, like the cork from the Waters of Soda. The head of a lion on the gates of Gliddon, the chief of the Divan, frowns on the valiant Phlaruppe. Dauntless as the brute-taming Van Amburgh, he grapples with the iron beast. He sounds the "fake away" of Belgravia. One potent wrench of his arm and the head of the forest king hangs drooping from Phlaruppe's hand. Knockerless are the gates of Gliddon! Of its lion the divan is bereft!
The lynx-eyed C 16 beheld the wrong. His dander arose. He drew his staff in vengeance. He seized the noble Phlaruppe. Sutton, the heavy-handed son of Africa, raised his arm. His white teeth grinned defiance on the blue son of Peel. Into the murky waters of the kennel he hurled the pride of the yard of Scotland. His blood crimsoned the flags. Groaning for help, he sprang the rattle of war.
Like rockets at Vauxhall the azure force of Rowan rushed up. Their hands grasped the staff of power. Phlaruppe heard the tramp of their Wellingtons. He sounded the Lullalietee of battle. He gathered his warriors around him. Firm as the cement of Pouloo they stood. As a torrent from a shower-bath poured the stiff-necked sons of Peel upon the foe.
As the cats of Kilkenny they fight. Like the shop of the maker of trunks rings the street with the blows. Stained is the earth with the claret of life.