Carol forth a canticle of demi-solidus With grain in a commensurate degree, Two-dozen darkly-feathered victims of a blunderbuss, All coarctate ’neath pastry made with ghee, By patient terebration, the aperture of the pie Was effected with a lever-handled spoon; When, judge the consternation of the monarch sitting by, All the birds set up a sympanising tune. They were only slightly wounded――chiefly suffering from surprise (It was fortunate the oven had been slow) And the warmth, though it alarmed them, which it’s useless to disguise, Made them quickly convalescent from the blow. Now, shortly after this the mighty monarch of the land Was ensconced with heaps of bullion untold, Engaged in what he evidently didn’t understand―― Rhabdologic computation of his gold. Her Majesty, his spouse, was in her boudoir far away, Employed in manducation of her lunch; On a dessicated loaf she gave her appetite full play, Which, with honey, was as much as she could munch. The feminine domestic was just then in the parterre, Suspending some habiliments to dry, When a darkly-feathered victim saw her standing on a chair, And amputated her olfactory. ―――― Sing a song of Season, Pockets full of naught, Four-and-twenty Prince-lings Don’t make up a Court. When the Season’s opened, They’ll represent the Crown;―― Isn’t that a shabby dish To set before the town? The Queen is absent――somewhere, Saving up her money, The Prince is in a Nile boat―― The Prince he is so funny. So there’s left but Christian To play the King at shows, And if he does, a blackbird, We trust, will have his nose! _The Tomahawk._ March, 1869. AMERICAN VERSION. Sing a song of dollars, A pocket full of brass, Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked in apple sass. When the pie was opened, The birds began a hovering, Wasn’t that a dainty dish To set before a Sovereign? ―――― At a concert given in the Albert Hall on February 26, 1876, when the Queen was present, the hall was scarcely half filled, and Sir Henry Cole’s arrangements were loudly condemned. Sing a song of native art! A programme weak and dry; 4 P.M. to Albert Hall Her Majesty draws nigh. When the doors were opened, The dead heads all came in, And took up their positions Where they could see the Queen. The Queen was in the Royal box, And thought it quite too funny, That fools to come and look at her Parted with their money. Those who could not see her box Took a quiet doze, And half the people left the Hall Long before the close. The people and Her Majesty Said ’twas a frightful hash; If this was all Sir Cole’s big show, It wasn’t worth the cash. _The Figaro._ March 4, 1876. ――――