There was Baron Alten himself exalting, And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more, Och! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd To tell the half of 'em was to the fore; With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses, And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works; But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly, "I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!" Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her In her purple garments and her goulden Crown; Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, With eight young ladies houlding up her gown, Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow, And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play'd a Consarto, With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row! Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up, For to resave her bounty and great wealth, Saying, "Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory! Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!" Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating; "Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can! And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur, Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!" Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs appealing, "Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!" And Sir Cladius Hunter he did confront her, All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain. The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too, But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry, Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching, With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee; And they did splash her with raal Macasshur, And the Queen said, "Ah! then thank ye all for me!"-- Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing, And sweet trombones with their silver tones; But Lord Rolle was rolling;--'twas mighty consoling To think his Lordship did not break his bones! Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop; With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats, And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop! There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,-- Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough, The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs. Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!"-- Och! if myself should live to be a hundred, Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen!-- And now, I've ended, what I pretended, This narration splendid in swate poe-thry, Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry! * * * * *