Punch: Punch (21.1851)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

33

THE QUEEN IN THE CITY.

ELL, oh my Muse! of the Progress of Royalty into the City:

Tell—though you've not any business to do it—the more is the pity—
Why wasn't Punch Poet-Laureate, and not lazy-bones Alfred Tennysoh F
Still, if I've not got the sack, I have had the turtle and venison;
Therefore I '11 sing, free and full, as Improvvisatore of Naples ;
Something for love of my Queen, and much for regard to my Staples.*

* Mb. Staples supplied the supper.

Lend me thy pen, mighty Gog, and, Magog, a dip of thy standish—

Now to astonish the natives, and visitors, also, outlandish.

What shall it be, Epic—Lyric—Tom Moorish—Wordsworthian—Byronic.

Just what you please little dears, so it's lively and also laconic.

Was I invited ?—Of course, Sir; for what City glorification

But has its cover for Punch, and his laugh at that dear Corporation ?

Up into Fleet Street I strove, from my house in historic Whitefriars,

Carelessly humming my staves, while of theirs the Policemen were pliers ;

Clearing the way of the small boys, who crowded round Punch m his glory,

Taking a sight at their King, e'en as I at my Queen—my Victory !

Thwack upon crowns fell their batons, as mine upon crowns oft hath fallen;

So through the hustlers I passed, and the hustled, the mauling, and maulen.-f

f There is no authority whatever for this past-participle; but there ought to he : fall—fallen • maul—maulet

Gallant, indeed, was the show, as forth into Fleet Street I struggled

'Twixt a fat charger's fore-legs my person I cautiously smuggled,

Into the road-way emerged, from the shade of my country's defenders,

And to the world stood revealed, 'neath the gas-stars' illumining splendours !

Eirst came a chill—then a cheer—and the cheer and the chill were contagious;

" Bless you, my people ! " I cried, and their loyalty waxed quite outrageous ;

Handkerchiefs waved from the windows; from lamp-posts the boys waved their daddies,

% " Hands," Vide " Sell's Life in London:'

And with the greatest ado the Life-Guardsmen kept still in their saddles.

Muse ! you may pass by the Y.s and the A.s, and the Crowns and the Laurels,

Stars, and Transparencies, also, with painfully obvious morals—

How the gas flickered and flared, and how (for the fact there's no blinking)

Thousands of coloured oil-lamps most disloyally went out like winking.

Pass we the Royal cortege—with its trumpeters and its slow coaches;

Don't say how bright was Cheapside, or how dark were the Guildhall approaches.

Pass—with the single remark, that ten thousand additional lamps there,

Might, with advantage, have come from Vauxhall, and the darks and the damps there,

Some little light to have thrown on that very remarkably mean street,

Which for this night should have changed name and style, too, from King into Queen Street!

Now—for I'm tired—take a spell—you, Magog and Gog, there's good Giants,

Tell how the Queen in Guildhall was received, by your Corporate clients.

Gog, go in first, like a Briton, and afterwards I '11 lay a tax on

Masterful Magog, in turn, to take up the burden in Saxon.

Gog loquitur.

Sing, Muse, by Gog, how from the prog, the Crypt's dark cells adorning,
The odour rose into my nose, since this here Wednesday morning.
In Staple's praise my voice I'll raise, to sing, as best I'm able,
The bill of fare and fowl as were upon the Royal table.

There was Puree de Volaille,
And Macedoine of Caille,
And Aspic de Levraut a la Belle-vue,
Noix de Veau & la gelee,
And a Hure de Sanglier,
(I might have said a wild boar's head, but, as English, that won't do).
There were Boudins de foie gras,
And Compote d'Ananas;
Buissons de Truffes and Gateaux a l'Artois ;
Then there was Mayonnaise,
And such Suedoise de Fraises,
A Pate monstre, and Cotelettes d'Agneau aux Petits Pois!

Magog loquitur.

Let Gog declare

The bill of fare;
But I will be the Bard, oh!

To sing the wine

Which was divine—
Oh, that Amontillado!

Or floor the flask,

Or drain the cask,
No headache you wouid nab in it.

And then that Hock;

From Nassau's stock—
That amber Steinburgh Cabinet!

And where they sell

That Muscatel,
T know, as I hope you do—

Vol. 21.

'Tis Domecq's growth—

I '11 take my oath—
And comes from Marchanudo.

And hark!—pop—pop !—

Sans stint or stop—
'Tis Bacchus' own artillery—

Where foams, and creams

In nectarous streams,
Exhilarating Sillery!—

Drink hael—Waes hael!

Celt, Erse, and Gael,
Old Magog gives you greeting;

Drink, Cit and. Peer,

And Foreignere,
And a Hoch ! to the merry
meeting!

Punch.

Hold! most courteous of Giants. Enough said of eating and drinking.

Gog.

And of what else, Sir, should we, a3 Corporate Giants, be tMnking ?

Punch.

Tell of the statues so graceful, enwreath'd all in roses and myrtle.

Magog.

We knows no statue but one, and that's Peace, cause her emblem's
a turtle.

Punch.

How of the music ?

Gog.

We heard none ; the Aldermen's buzzing so loud was.