Classic Poem

Now Majesty into a pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep,
Examining with care each won'drous matter
That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,
A chatt'ring bird we often meet,
A bird for curiosity well known,
With head awry,
And cunning eye,
Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious Majesty did stoop
To count the nails on ev'ry hoop;
And lo! no single one came in his way,
That, full of deep research, he did not say,
‘What's this? hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?’
So quick the words too, when he deign'd to speak,
As if each syllable would break its neck.

To Whitbread now deign's Majesty to say,
‘Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?’
‘Yes, please your Majesty,’ in humble notes,
The Brewer answer'd—‘also, Sir, of oats:
Another thing my horses too maintains,
And that, an't please your Majesty, are grains.’

‘Grains, grains,’ said Majesty, ‘to fill their crops?
Grains, grains?—that comes from hops—yes, hops, hops, hops?’

Here was the King, like hounds sometimes, at fault—
‘Sire,’ cry'd the humble Brewer, ‘give me leave
Your sacred Majesty to undeceive:
Grains, Sire, are never made from hops, but malt.’

‘True,’ said the cautious Monarch, with a smile;
From malt, malt, malt—I meant malt all the while.’
‘Yes,’ with the sweetest now, rejoin'd the Brewer,
‘An't please your Majesty, you did, I'm sure.’
‘Yes,’ answer'd Majesty, with quick reply,
‘I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.’