From a golden boat, with a golden spoon, The babe was fed night, morning, and noon; And although the tale seems fabulous, ’Tis said her tops and bottoms were gilt, Like the oats in that Stable-yard Palace built For the Horse of Heliogabalus. And when she took to squall and kick-- For pain will ring, and pins will prick, E’en the wealthiest nabob’s daughter-- They gave her no vulgar Dalby or gin, But a liquor with leaf of gold therein, Videlicet,--Dantzic Water. In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst, And drest in the best from the very first, To please the genteelest censor-- And then, as soon as strength would allow Was vaccinated, as babes are now, With virus ta’en from the best-bred cow Of Lord Althorpe’s--now Earl Spencer. HER CHRISTENING. Though Shakespeare asks us, “What’s in a name?” (As if cognomens were much the same), There’s really a very great scope in it. A name?--why, wasn’t there Doctor Dodd, That servant at once of Mammon and God, Who found four thousand pounds and odd, A prison--a cart--and a rope in it? A name?--if the party had a voice, What mortal would be a Bugg by choice? As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice? Or any such nauseous blazon? Not to mention many a vulgar name, That would make a door-plate blush for shame, If door-plates were not so brazen! A name?--it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth-- As dames of a certain degree know. In spite of his Page’s hat and hose, His Page’s jacket, and buttons in rows, Bob only sounds like a page in prose Till turned into Rupertino. Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg, For days and days it was quite a plague, To hunt the list in the Lexicon: And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring, Ere names were found just the proper thing For a minor rich as a Mexican. Then cards were sent the presence to beg Of all the kin of Kilmansegg, White, yellow, and brown relations: Brothers, Wardens of City Halls, And Uncles--rich as three Golden Balls From taking pledges of nations. Nephews, whom Fortune seem’d to bewitch, Rising in life like rockets-- Nieces, whose doweries knew no hitch-- Aunts, as certain of dying rich As candles in golden sockets-- Cousins German and Cousins’ sons, All thriving and opulent--some had tons Of Kentish hops in their pockets! For money had stuck to the race through life (As it did to the bushel when cash so rife Posed Ali Baba’s brother’s wife)-- And down to the Cousins and Coz-lings, The fortunate brood of the Kilmanseggs, As if they had come out of golden eggs, Were all as wealthy as “Goslings.”