When she saw the light, it was no mere ray Of that light so common--so everyday-- That the sun each morning launches-- But six wax tapers dazzled her eyes, From a thing--a gooseberry bush for size-- With a golden stem and branches. She was born exactly at half-past two, As witnessed a time-piece in or-molu That stood on a marble table-- Showing at once the time of day, And a team of _Gildings_ running away As fast as they were able, With a golden God, with a golden Star, And a golden Spear, in a golden Car, According to Grecian fable. Like other babes, at her birth she cried; Which made a sensation far and wide-- Ay, for twenty miles around her: For though to the ear ’twas nothing more Than an infant’s squall, it was really the roar Of a Fifty-thousand Pounder! It shook the next heir In his library chair, And made him cry, “Confound her!” Of signs and omens there was no dearth, Any more than at Owen Glendower’s birth, Or the advent of other great people: Two bullocks dropp’d dead, As if knock’d on the head, And barrels of stout And ale ran about, And the village-bells such a peal rang out, That they crack’d the village-steeple. In no time at all, like mushroom spawn, Tables sprang up all over the lawn; Not furnish’d scantly or shabbily, But on scale as vast As that huge repast, With its loads and cargoes Of drink and botargoes, At the birth of the Babe in Rabelais. Hundreds of men were turn’d into beasts, Like the guests at Circe’s horrible feasts, By the magic of ale and cider: And each country lass, and each country lad, Began to caper and dance like mad, And ev’n some old ones appear’d to have had A bite from the Naples Spider. Then as night came on, It had scared King John Who considered such signs not risible, To have seen the maroons, And the whirling moons, And the serpents of flame, And wheels of the same, That according to some were “whizzable.” Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs! Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs, That her parents had such full pockets! For had she been born of Want and Thrift, For care and nursing all adrift, It’s ten to one she had had to make shift With rickets instead of rockets! And how was the precious baby drest? In a robe of the East, with lace of the West, Like one of Crœsus’ issue-- Her best bibs were made Of rich gold brocade, And the others of silver tissue. And when the Baby inclined to nap She was lull’d on a Gros de Naples lap, By a nurse in a modish Paris cap, Of notions so exalted, She drank nothing lower than Curaçoa, Maraschino, or pink Noyau, And on principle never malted.