The bells they shall ring, and the music shall play, The ninth of November, remember the day. Through England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Shout long life to the Queen and the young Prince of Wales. It was on the ninth, about eleven in the morn, When the young Prince of Wales in the palace was born, Little Vic. she was there, as you all may be sure, Besides doctors, nurses, and gossips--a score, Says Vic. I declare he is the image of me, And there’s my dear Albert’s nose to a tee, One and all declared, when he grew up a man, He would drub all the foes that infested the land. Then Albert he stepped in with a face full of glee, And danced and he dandled his son on his knee, When all in an instant his countenance fell, And he cried “don’t I see a most terrible smell!” “Mine Cot,” says Al., “oh Lord what a mess! He has completely spoilt my new morning dress, Be quick go fetch me some napkins or towels, For my son, the young Prince, is relaxed in his bowels.” Of friends and relations there came such a crew, Of Lords, Dukes, and Ladies, and Germans a few, Each one bringing presents, the young Prince to please, They all were as brisk as a cart load of fleas; Lady Melbourn she brought him a neat little lamb, With lollipops he was by Miss Russel cramm’d, There were cradles and pap, boots, and rattles complete, And lots of small chairs with large holes in the seat. The head nurse Miss Peel, declared with much joy, She never saw such a sweet little boy. She’d clap him she said at the head of the police, That is if his mamma would give him that leave, Says old Waterloo Nell, it shall be no such thing, For the Prince he was born to become a great king; When the child to decide the question let fly, With a basin of pap knock’d out Betty Peel’s eye. The young Prince was set at the end of the room, And instead of a sceptre he shouldered a broom, His great uncle Ernest swore he could whack, And he gave him in earnest a most devilish crack, They all were as merry as grigs I declare, Each one seem’d determin’d to drive away care, One and all took a glass and drank with much joy, Long life to the Prince, he’s a fine little boy. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] THE OWDHAM CHAP’S VISIT TO TH’ QUEEN. It happen’d t’other Monday morn, while seated at my loom, sirs, Pickin’ th’ ends fro, eaut o’th yorn, caur Nan pop’d into th’ room sirs, Hoo shouted eaut, aw tell thee, Dick, aw think thour’t actin shabby, So off to Lunnon cut thy stick, and look at th’ royal babby. Every thing wur fun an’ glee, they laugh’d at o aw tow’d em, An’ ax’d if th’ folk wur o like me, ut happen’d t’ come fro’ Owdham.