A MONARCH is pestered with cares, Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them; But one comes in a shape he can never escape— The implacable National Anthem! Though for quiet and rest he may yearn, It pursues him at every turn— No chance of forsaking Its _rococo_ numbers; They haunt him when waking— They poison his slumbers— Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows, He’s cursed with its music wherever he goes! Though its words but imperfectly rhyme, And the devil himself couldn’t scan them; With composure polite he endures day and night That illiterate National Anthem! It serves a good purpose, I own: Its strains are devout and impressive— Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats As we burn with devotion excessive: But the King, who’s been bored by that song From his cradle—each day—all day long— Who’s heard it loud-shouted By throats operatic, And loyally spouted By courtiers emphatic— By soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife— Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life! While his subjects sing loudly and long, Their King—who would willingly ban them— Sits, worry disguising, anathematising That Bogie, the National Anthem! HER TERMS MY wedded life Must every pleasure bring On scale extensive! If I’m your wife I must have everything That’s most expensive— A lady’s-maid— (My hair alone to do I am not able)— And I’m afraid I’ve been accustomed to A first-rate table. These things one must consider when one marries— And everything I wear must come from Paris! Oh, think of that! Oh, think of that! I can’t wear anything that’s not from Paris! From top to toes Quite Frenchified I am, If you examine. And then—who knows?— Perhaps some day a fam— Perhaps a famine! My argument’s correct, if you examine, What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!