On that first Saturday in May, When Lords and Ladies, great and grand, Repair to see what each R. A. Has done since last they sought the Strand, In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue, In short, what’s called the private view, Amongst the guests--the deuce knows how She got in there without a row-- There came a large and vulgar dame With arms deep red, and face the same, Showing in temper not a Saint; No one could guess for why she came, Unless perchance to “scour the Paint.” From wall to wall she forc’d her way, Elbow’d Lord Durham--pok’d Lord Grey-- Stamp’d Stafford’s toes to make him move, And Devonshire’s Duke received a shove; The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honour, budge, And gave a pinch to Park the Judge. As for the ladies, in this stir, The highest rank gave way to her. From number one and number two, She search’d the pictures through and through. On benches stood, to inspect the high ones, And squatted down to scan the shy ones. And as she went from part to part, A deeper red each cheek became, Her very eyes lit up in flame, That made each looker-on exclaim, “Really an ardent love of art!” Alas, amidst her inquisition, Fate brought her to a sad condition; She might have run against Lord Milton, And still have stared at deeds in oil, But ah! her picture-joy to spoil, She came full butt on Mr. Hilton. The Keeper mute, with staring eyes, Like a lay-figure for surprise, At last thus stammer’d out, “How now? Woman--where, woman, is your ticket, That ought to let you through our wicket?” Says woman, “Where is David’s Cow?” Said Mr. H----, with expedition, “There’s no Cow in the Exhibition.” “No Cow!”--but here her tongue in verity, Set off with steam and rail celerity--