After luncheon (making merry
  On a bun and glass of sherry),
      If we’ve nothing particular to do,
  We may make a Proclamation,
  Or receive a Deputation—­
      Then we possibly create a Peer or two. 
  Then we help a fellow creature on his path
  With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath: 
  Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State
  To a festival, a function, or a fete. 
      Then we go and stand as sentry
      At the Palace (private entry),
  Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,
      While the warrior on duty
      Goes in search of beer and beauty
  (And it generally happens that he hasn’t far to go). 
      He relieves us, if he’s able,
      Just in time to lay the table,
  Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,
      With a pleasure that’s emphatic,
      We retire to our attic
  With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done. 
      Oh, philosophers may sing
      Of the troubles of a King,
  But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;
      And the culminating pleasure
      That we treasure beyond measure
  Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!

THE ROVER’S APOLOGY.

  Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;
    Though I own that my heart has been ranging,
  Of nature the laws I obey,
    For nature is constantly changing. 
  The moon in her phases is found,
    The time and the wind and the weather,
  The months in succession come round,
    And you don’t find two Mondays together. 
      Consider the moral, I pray,
        Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,
      Who loves this young lady to-day,
        And loves that young lady to-morrow.

  You cannot eat breakfast all day,
    Nor is it the act of a sinner,
  When breakfast is taken away
    To turn your attention to dinner;
  And it’s not in the range of belief,
    That you could hold him as a glutton,
  Who, when he is tired of beef,
    Determines to tackle the mutton. 
      But this I am ready to say,
        If it will diminish their sorrow,
      I’ll marry this lady to-day,
        And I’ll marry that lady to-morrow!

WOULD YOU KNOW?

  Would you know the kind of maid
    Sets my heart a flame-a? 
  Eyes must be downcast and staid,
    Cheeks must flush for shame-a! 
      She may neither dance nor sing,
      But, demure in everything,
      Hang her head in modest way,
      With pouting lips that seem to say
   “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
      Though I die of shame-a.” 
    Please you, that’s the kind of maid
      Sets my heart a flame-a!