It will be seen that we were not premature in announcing the probability of the birth of a Prince of Wales; and though it was impossible that anyone should be able to speak with certainty, our positive tone upon the occasion serves to show the exclusive nature of all our intelligence. We are enabled now to state that the Prince will immediately take, indeed he has already taken, the title of the _Prince of Wales_, which it is generally understood he will enjoy--at least if a child so young can be said to enjoy anything of the kind--until an event shall happen which we hope will be postponed for a very protracted period. The Prince of Wales, should he survive his mother, will ascend the throne; but whether he will be George the Fifth, Albert the First, Henry the Ninth, Charles the Third, or Anything the Nothingth, depends upon circumstances we are not at liberty to allude to _at present_, nor do we think we shall be enabled to do so in a second edition. Our suggestion last week, that the royal birth should take place on Lord Mayor's Day, has, we are happy to see, been partially attended to; but we regret that the whole hog has not been gone, by twins having been presented to the anxious nation, so that there might have been a baronetcy each for the outgoing and incoming Lord Mayors of London and Dublin. [Illustration: A ROYAL NURSERY RHYME FOR 1860 "There was a Royal Lady who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do."] This vein is further developed in burlesque bulletins of the progress of the infant Prince. _Punch's_ serious views as to the Prince's future are to be found in his "Pæan to the Princelet" and its sequel, inspired by the Royal Christening in February, 1842:-- _PUNCH_ AND THE PRINCELET * * * * * The little Prince _must_ love the poor, And he will heed the cry Of the pauper mother, when she finds Her infant's fountains dry. He'll fill the cruse, and bruise the ear, To make those founts o'erflow, For they have vow'd our little Prince No "vanities" shall know. And we will rattle our little bell, And laugh, and dance, and sing as well-- Roo-too-tooit! Shallaballa! Life to the Prince! Fallallalla! And death's dark bones will then become Like iv'ry pure and white! His blood-dyed robe will moulder off, And his garments be as light; For man will slaughter man no more For wrong begot by wrongs, For our little Prince will say--"To me Nor life nor death belongs." So we will rattle our little bell, And laugh, and dance, and sing as well-- Roo-too-tooit! Shallaballa! Life to the Prince! Fallallalla!