Classic Poem

The Queen she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall,
And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all;
There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel,
And at the bottom of the board Prince Albert carved the veal.

‘What, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! Ho! cellarer, the wine,
And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's line!’
Then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of British peers,
‘God bless her sacred Majesty! Let's see the little dears!’

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see
That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee;
To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape
With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape!

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine—they filled the goblets up;
Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup;
And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease,
Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees.

‘What want we here, my gracious liege,’ cried gay Lord Aberdeen,
‘Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between?
I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay,
But where's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to-day?’

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried,
‘Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside?
Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown,
And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through London town!’

‘Now glory to our gracious Queen!’ a voice was heard to cry,
And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye;
‘Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race,
A boon, a boon, my sovran liege! Give me the Laureate's place!

‘'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre;
And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar?
The hero of a hundred fights—’ Then Wellington up sprung,
‘Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue!

‘By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay,
Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye!
'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine.
Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!’

‘No Laureate need we at our board!’ then spoke the Lord of Vaux;
‘Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know.
Even I myself—’ Then rose the cry—‘A song, a song from Brougham!’
He sang,—and straightway found himself alone within the room.