Hip! hip! hurrah! What a glorious day! They're proclaiming the Queen— Magnificent scene! Look—there sits the Mayor! That's his worship, I'll swear. The bells are clanging; The cannons are banging; The big drums are playing; The trumpets are braying; The cymbals are ringing; The people are singing, "Victoria victorious, Happy and glorious. Long-to-reign-orious." The Guards are advancing, Kicking and prancing. First the videttes On their chargers—such pets! Then comes the horse-doctor, As grave as a proctor: Then four pioneers, With their axes—such dears! And as sharp, ay, as needles. And then come the beadles (Messieurs Tomkins and Startin) Of St. James and St. Martin. After them the Guards' band, So fierce and so grand. The Marshals march next, With their tits much perplex'd. Then the Sergeants-at-Arms, Looking full of alarms; And the Heralds, whose dresses Get in terrible messes. Her Majesty's Garter Comes figuring _arter_, With his splendid gold tabard, And sword in his scabbard; And behind him is sergeants, Who to-day think they _are_ gents. While the Horse-guards appear To bring up the rear. But let's change the scene a bit; And look at the Queen a bit, Giving audience to all, Great, middling, and small. Among the paraders Are the royalty traders: Her Majesty's hatter, Gunsmith, and cravatter, Royal builders of britchkas, Brutus wigs, and false whiskers. The Queen's top-boot maker, And her "own undertaker," Who says, with much fervour, He'll be "happy to serve her." Then at night, what a sight, When the lamps are a-light, Green, red, blue, and white; And transparencies bright Shine from attic to floor— There's a thousand or more. In every street Blazing lions you meet; And, in letters of flame, VICTORIA'S dear name.