Punch: Punch (11.1846)

190

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

punch's spanish ballads.

the glories op childe bbesson.

fCwiGHTiKG of yE count Bressoji wis Babe

Oh ! is it for a Christening that Spain's Granuees are met ?

For a baby, in its long clothes, in the midst of them is set ;

And if babies know what pride is, proud that babe should be, I ween,

Crowed to by an Infanta, and dandied by a Queen.

No, it ia not for a Christening, that Spain's Grandees are come,

And 'tis no common baby there, that sucks its little thumb,

And rolls its stone-blue saucer eyes, and kicks and chirps with glee—

'Tis Master Bresson, ten months old, whom the Queen creates Grandee !

Not, as of yore, for Paynim slain, or town won from the
Turk:

The honour's giveD, but to his sire, for dark and dirty work.
And who shall dare a voice to raise, when Her Majesty
decrees,

That an Infanta's marriage shall make Infantine Grandees ?

So there they stand, a noble band ! blue blood in every vein -t
The Lermas and Ossunas and Medinas of Old Spain ;
Whose fathers ruled her councils, whose blood for her was

shed,

Where the Lion and the Castle waved o'er dying and o'er
dead !

Yes, these their race—of vacant face, and low retreating
bro w,

All over-drtssed and under-sized; such are Spain's noblest
now.

And, worthy deed for such a seed, these full-grown babies,

see,

Receive a baby to their ranks—a ten-months' old Grandee I

Nurse,set down "Francois Paul Philippe de Bresson"

safe and well ;
Nurse, lift him up, " El Duqce de Santa Isabel ! "
Henceforth, when at the court his sucking Excellence is seen,
His little hat and feathers he may wear before the Queen 1

But for deeds like Bresson, senior's, such guerdon is too
light ;

When we're about it, let us dub his little Highness, Knight;
Santiago, Calatrava—let him have which he prefers,
The prettiest, plumpest, little squire, that ever won his
spurs.

The Queen girds on the golden spurs upon his little socks ^
Munoz around his tiny waist the belt of honour locks ;
While, fingering his Toledo like one very ill at ease,
The Accolade of valour gives Field-Marechal D'Assiz.

But thro' the affair, high up in air, was a clash and sound

of war,

For, clothed in steel from head to heel, looked down the
Cm Bivar !

He thought how he took Knighthood, 'mid the nobles of the
land,

At Coimbra's bloody leaguer, from good Fernando's hand I

"And this is Knighthood now-a-days, and this an av'rage
sample

Of the race that, in its pride, was wont on Christendom to
trample !

Poor Spain ! Vile France-" He raised his lance, but

checked himself—" Ah, bah !
I'm an old fool of the old school—' lis ont change tout cela I' "

the john bull fight op louis philippe.

The sun shines on the Plaza, but brighter than his beaming,
The lustrous eyes of ladies from mantilla-folds are gleaming ;
Fair cheeks are flushed, soft hearts are hard, calm pulses

thick and full,
For the signal that says "Exit Alcalde, enter BulL"

But why this lordly gathering of princes and of peers ?
Why so courteous bow ambassadors who've long been by
the ears ?

Why doth Austria despotic greet Prussia doctrinaire,
And France exchange a friendly hug with the rugged
Russian Bear ?

Is it Monies they flock forth to see, that famous matador f
Or is Romero's ghost come back to face the bull once more ?
Or hath Pepe Illo risen to prove, that, spite of Gallic gold,
Still hand of Spaniard may be true, and heart of Spaniard
bold?

No, 'tis a craftier swordsman must try his courage here,
Asd on a lustier brute, than all La Mancha's pastures rear—
Full well, I ween, may looks be keen, and every seat be full,
For Louis-Philippe is matador, and England sends the
Bull 1

The bell is rung, the key is flung, the grate is opened wide,
And from the toril lesiurely comes John Bull in his pride ;
His hide is dark, hi3 sinews stark, his fore-hoof ploughs the
dust, T *

As who'd say, " I don't like fighting; but if I must, I must