A subject I want for a song, do you see, So Her Majesty, look ye, my subject shall be; Nay, there I am wrong, so my muse here avers, _My_ “subject” she can’t be because I am _her’s_! Forgive me I beg, if with words I do play, And “hear a plain man in his own queer plain way,” And still to my errors in mercy pray lean, While the wedding I sing of our glorious Queen! Our cups to the dregs in a health let us drain, And wish them a long and a prosperous reign; Like good loyal subjects in loud chorus sing Victoria’s wedding with Albert her King. Many suitors the Queen’s had of class, clime, and creed, But each failed to make an impression, indeed; For, for Albert of Coburg the rest off she packs-- Thus “giving the _bag_ each” and keeping the “SAXE!” A fortunate fellow he is, all must say, And right well his _cards_ he has managed to play; The _game_ he has won, and no wonder, I ween, When he play’d “speculation” and turn’d up “_The Queen_.” Our cups to the dregs, &c., &c. A hundred thousand a year he may get For taking the Queen, which is something to wit; _I_ myself had “propos’d,” had I known it that’s flat, For I’d willingly take her for much less than that. Even yet, if Her Majesty _should_ chance to scoff At the bargain she’s made, and the matter break off, I’ll instantly seek her, and lay my mind down, And offer to take her at just--_half-a-crown_! Our cups to the dregs, &c., &c. Since the Queen did herself for a husband “propose,” The ladies will all do the same, I suppose; Their days of subserviency now will be past, For all will “speak first” as they always did _last_! Since the Queen has no equal, “obey” none she need, So, of course, at the altar, from such vow she’s freed; And the women will all follow suit, so they say-- “Love, honour,” they’ll promise, but never--“obey.” Our cups to the dregs, &c., &c. “Those will now wed who ne’er wedded before-- Those who always wedded will now wed the more;” Clerks will no time have to lunch, dine, or sup, And parsons just now will begin to _look up_! To churches, indeed, this will be a God-send, Goldsmiths be selling off _rings without end_; For now, you’ll not find from castle to cot, A _single_ man living who _married_ is not! Our cups to the dregs, &c., &c. But hence with all quibbling, for now I’ll have done, Though all I have said has been purely in fun; May the Queen and the King shine like Venus and Mars, And heaven _preserve_ them without any _jars_! Like Danae of old may we see it plain, ’Till time is no more, these bright _sovereigns rain_; May pleasure and joy through their lives know no bounds, So let’s give them a _toast_, and make it _three rounds_. Our cups to the dregs, &c., &c.