Oh, Pimlico! where are the charms Thy Buckingham Palace can boast? What is sporting proud royalty’s arms Of Railways to ruling the roast? Prince Albert to prance on his nag, And follow the lame deer is free; But my quarry’s a different stag, And the Engine’s the hunter for me. An army our Queen may possess, On the Ocean her navy may roll; Of the Line I have regiments, no less, And more numerous navies control. My seat of imperial state I’d not swop for Her Majesty’s throne, Nor for that of my Sovereign vacate The boiler that serves for my own. Lords in Waiting are all very grand, Maids of Honour are all very fine; But the deft Engineer to command, And to rule the sharp Stoker be mine. _Punch._ November 15, 1845. ―――― VERSES. _Supposed to be written by William Smith O’Brien, during his solitary Abode in the Cellar of the House of Commons._ I am monarch of all I survey; My right there is none to dispute; From the break-fast time round to the tay, I see neither Saxon nor brute. O Solitude! where’s the atthractions, That sages have seen in your face? Better dwell in the midst of the Saxons, Then reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity’s reach, I must finish the Session alone, Ne’er cry “hear!” to an illigant speech,―― Sure I start at the sound of my own. Them beasts, the attindants and waithers, My form with indifference see; They are so unaccustomed to Marthyrs, Their coolness is shocking to me. Society――blarney――abuse―― Gifts dear to the boys of my name! O if I had the _wings_ of a goose, It’s soon I’d be out of this same. I then might enliven my gloom In the ways of repalers and men, Might learn from the wisdom of HUME, And be cheer’d by the sallies of BEN. Ye Mimbers, that make me your sport, O convey to this desolate door A _Times_, with a faithful report Of the House I shall visit no more. My frinds, sure they now and then sind A joke or a laugh after me? O tell me I yet have a frind Though BENTINCK I’m never to see. The attindant is gone to his rest, The Saxon lies down in his lair;―― While I think of the Isle of the West, And turn up my bed[71] in dispair. But whisky is still to be had; And the whisky――encouraging thought! As it is not by any means bad, Half reconciles me to my lot. _Punch._ 1846. ―――― THE ORIGINAL SONG OF ROBINSON CRUSOE.