King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon, With a moody brow, and he looks like a "Spoon," And all the Court Nobles, who form the ring, Have a spoony appearance, of course, like the King, All of them eyeing King Ferdinand As he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand, Which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro,-- "What is it can make the Archbishop so slow?" Hark!--at last there's a sound in the courtyard below, Where the Beefeaters all are drawn up in a row,-- I would say the "Guards," for in Spain they're in chief eaters Of _omelettes_ and garlick, and can't be call'd Beefeaters; In fact, of the few Individuals I knew Who ever had happened to travel in Spain, There has scarce been a person who did not complain Of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain, And no one I'm sure will deny it who's tried a Vile compound they have that's called _Olla podrida_. (This, by the bye, 's a mere rhyme to the eye, For in Spanish the _i_ is pronounced like an _e_, And they've not quite our mode of pronouncing the _d_. In Castille, for instance, it's giv'n through the teeth, And what we call Ma_drid_ they sound more like Mad_reeth_,) Of course you will see in a moment they've no men That at all corresponds with our Beefeating Yeomen; So call them "Walloons," or whatever you please, By their rattles and slaps they're not "standing at ease," But, beyond all disputing, Engaged in saluting Some very great person among the Grandees;-- Here a Gentleman Usher walks in and declares, "His Grace the Archbishop's a-coming up stairs!"