All this from the French Revolution has sprung, And its doctrines so pernicious, From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine, And Voltaire the malicious. Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly think That none of these hapless creatures Have ever observed how dead they are, How devoid of head and features. The first _dame d’atour_ a linen shift brings, And makes a reverence lowly; The second hands it to the queen, And both retire then slowly. The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneel Before the queen discreetly, That they may be able to draw on Her Majesty’s stockings neatly. A maid of honour curtsying brings Her Majesty’s robe for the morning; Another with curtsies her petticoat holds And assists at the queen’s adorning. The mistress of the robes with her fan Stands by, the time beguiling; And as her head is unhappily gone, With her other end she is smiling. The sun his inquisitive glances throws Inside the draperied casement; But when the apparitions he sees, He starts in fearful amazement. THE SILESIAN WEAVERS.[68] No tears from their gloomy eyes are flowing, They sit at the loom, their white teeth showing: “Thy shroud, O Germany, now weave we, “A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,-- “We’re weaving, we’re weaving! “A curse on the God to whom our petition “We vainly address’d when in starving condition; “In vain did we hope, and in vain did we wait, “He only derided and mock’d our sad fate,-- “‘re weaving, we’re weaving! “A curse on the King of the wealthy, whom often “Our misery vainly attempted to soften; “Who takes away e’en the last penny we’ve got, “And lets us like dogs in the highway be shot,-- “We’re weaving, we’re weaving! “A curse on our fatherland false and contriving, “Where shame and disgrace alone are seen thriving, “Where flowers are pluck’d before they unfold, “Where batten the worms on corruption and mould,-- “We’re weaving, we’re weaving! “The shuttle is flying, the loom creaks away, “We’re weaving busily night and day; “Thy shroud, Old Germany, now weave we, “A threefold curse we’re weaving for thee,-- “We’re weaving, we’re weaving!” POMARE. 1. All the gods of love are shouting In my heart, and blowing airy Flourishes, and crying: “Hail! “Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!” Not the queen of Otaheite Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty To convert; no, she I mean Is a wild untutor’d beauty. Twice in every week appears she, All her subjects quite entrancing In that dear Jardin Mabille, Waltzes and the polka dancing. Majesty in all her footsteps, Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her, Quite a princess every inch, Whichsoever way you take her.