The Marquis of Carabas

A SONG WITH A STOLEN BURDEN

Off with your hat! along the street
— His Lordship's carriage rolls;
Respect to greatness — when it shines
— To cheer our darkened souls.
Get off the step, you ragged boys!
— Policeman, where's your staff?
This is a sight to check with awe
— The most irreverent laugh.
— Chapeau bas!
— Chapeau bas!
Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Stand further back! we'll see him well;
— Wait till they lift him out:
It takes some time; his Lordship's old,
— And suffers from the gout.
Now look! he owns a castled park
— For every finger thin;
He has more sterling pounds a day
— Than wrinkles in his skin.

The founder of his race was son
— To a king's cousin, rich;
(The mother was an oyster wench —
— She perished in a ditch).
His patriot worth embalmed has been
— In poets' loud applause:
He made twelve thousand pounds a year
— By aiding France's cause.

The second marquis, of the stole
— Was groom to the second James;
He all but caught that recreant king
— When flying o'er the Thames.
Devotion rare! by Orange Will
— With a Scotch county paid;
He gained one more — in Ireland — when
— Charles Edward he betrayed.

He lived to see his son grow up
— A general famed and bold,
Who fought his country's fights — and one,
— For half a million, sold.
His son (alas! the house's shame)
— Frittered the name away:
Diced, wenched and drank — at last got shot,
— Through cheating in his play!

Now, see, where, focused on one head,
— The race's glories shine:
The head gets narrow at the top,
— But mark the jaw — how fine!
Don't call it satyr-like; you'd wound
— Some scores, whose honest pates
The self-same type present, upon
— The Carabas estates!

Look at his skin — at four-score years
— How fresh it gleams and fair:
He never tasted ill-dressed food,
— Or breathed in tainted air.
The noble blood glows through his veins
— Still, with a healthful pink;
His brow scarce wrinkled! — Brows keep so
— That have not got to think.

His hand's ungloved! — it shakes, 'tis true,
— But mark its tiny size,
(High birth's true sign) and shape, as on
— The lackey's arm it lies.
That hand ne'er penned a useful line,
— Ne'er worked a deed of fame,
Save slaying one, whose sister he —
— Its owner — brought to shame.

They've got him in — he's gone to vote
— Your rights and mine away;
Perchance our lives, should men be scarce,
— To fight his cause for pay.
We are his slaves! he owns our lands,
— Our woods, our seas, and skies;
He'd have us shot like vicious dogs,
— Should we in murmuring rise!
— Chapeau bas!
— Chapeau bas!
Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.