Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,) With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico. There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed Pimlico. O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O; And while round the chamber astonished I go, I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico. Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico. And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it; O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow: But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-áture-- He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico. There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show; And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is, That painted the panels of famed Pimlico. In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio; And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico. There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't;) And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico. That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, But some I won't mintion is rather so so; For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee, O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico? O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero; So heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico. THE CRYSTAL PALACE. With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing, The Palace made o' windows! Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial. O would before That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron! And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums. My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wing she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.