Now, Punch, on your oath, did you ever hear the likes o’ that? 
  But oh, houly Paul, if you only seen his big cock’d hat,
  Stuck up on the top of his jazy;—­a mighty illegant thatch,
  With hair like young Deaf Burke’s, all rushing up to the scratch,
  You must have been divarted; and, Jewil, then he wore
  A thund’ring big Taglioni-cut purple velvet roquelore. 
  And who but Misther Dan cut it fat in all his pride,
  Cover’d over with white favors, like a gentle blushing bride;
  And wasn’t he follow’d by all the blackguards for his tail,
  Shouting out for their lives, ‘Success to Dan O’Connell and Rapale.’ 
  But the Old Corporation has behaved mighty low and mane,
  As they wouldn’t lend him the loan of the ancient raal goold chain,
  Nor the collar; as they said they thought (divil burn ’em),
  If they’d done so, it was probable Dan never would return ’em. 
  But, good-bye, I must be off,—­he’s gone to take the chair! 
  So my love to Mrs. Punch, and no more about the Mayor.”

* * * * *

PUNCH’S PAEAN TO THE PRINCELET.

  Huzza! we’ve a little prince at last,
    A roaring Royal boy;
  And all day long the booming bells
    Have rung their peals of joy. 
  And the little park-guns have blazed away,
    And made a tremendous noise,
  Whilst the air hath been fill’d since eleven o’clock
    With the shouts of little boys;
  And we have taken our little bell,
  And rattled and laugh’d, and sang as well,
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

  Our little Prince will be daintily swathed,
    And laid on a bed of down,
  Whilst his cradle will stand ’neath a canopy
    That is deck’d with a golden crown. 
  O, we trust when his Queenly Mother sees
    Her Princely boy at rest,
  She will think of the helpless pauper babe
    That lies at a milkless breast! 
  And then we will rattle our little bell. 
  And shout and laugh, and sing as well—­
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

  Our little Prince, we have not a doubt,
    Has set up a little cry;
  But a dozen sweet voices were there to soothe,
    And sing him a lullaby. 
  We wonder much if a voice so small
    Could reach our loved Monarch’s ear;
  If so, she said “God bless the poor! 
    Who cry and have no one near.” 
  So then we will rattle our little bell,
  And shout and laugh, and sing as well—­
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

  Our little Prince (though he heard them not)
    Hath been greeted with honied words,
  And his cheeks have been fondled to win a smile
    By the Privy Council Lords. 
  Will he trust the “charmer”