James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
May 1Lines on a Late Hospicious Ewent
By William Makepeace Thackeray (18111863)
Prince Arthur was the third son of Queen Victoria. He was born on May 1, the birth day of the Duke of Wellington, and was named after him.
I
With steady step and slow,
All huppandawnd of Ranelagh Street;
Ran’lagh St. Pimlico.
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!
Then presnly I sor,
They gallops to the Pallis gate,
In carridges and for.
Before the gate they stop,
There comes the good Lord President,
And there the Archbishopp.
And who comes here in haste?
’Tis the ero of one underd fights,
The caudle for to taste.
Towards them steps with joy;
Says the brave old Duke, “Come tell to us,
Is it a gal or a boy?”
“Your Grace, it is a Prince.”
And at that nuss’s bold rebuke
He did both laugh and wince.
This pooty flower of May,
Then says the wenerable Duke,
“Egad, it’s my buthday.”
Peraps his thoughts did stray
To that old place where he was born
Upon the first of May.
The ancient towers of Trim;
And County Meath and Dangan Hall
They did rewisit him.
His good old thoughts employin’;
Fourscore years and one ago
Beside the flowin’ Boyne.
Most musicle of Lords,
A playing maddrigles and glees
Upon the Arpiscords.
Upon his mother’s knee!
Did ever lady in this land
Ave greater sons than she?
While this was in his mind,
If a drop there twinkled in his eyes
Of unfamiliar brind.
To Hapsly Ouse next day
Drives up a Broosh and for,
A gracious prince sits in that Shay
(I mention him with Hor!).
The Porter shows his Ed,
(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,
And vears a Veskit red).
The people round it press:
“And is the galliant Duke at ome?”
“Your Royal Ighness, yes,”
And in the gate is gone;
And X, although the people push,
Says wery kind, “Move hon.”
The galliant Duke did say,
“Dear Duke, my little son and you
Was born the self-same day.
My wife and Sovring dear,
It is by her horgust command
I wait upon you here.
As can expected be;
And to your Grace she bid me tell
This gracious message free.
Whom yesterday you see,
To show our honour for your Grace,
Prince Arthur he shall be.
All Europe knows the sound:
And I couldn’t find a better name
If you’d give me twenty pound.
That girt his table round,
But you have won a hundred fights,
Will match ’em, I’ll be bound.
And likewise Tippoo Saib;
I name you then with all my heart
The Godsire of this babe.”
His hinterview was done,
So let us give the good old Duke
Good luck of his god-son,
In this our time of Schism,
And hope he’ll hear the Royal boy
His little catechism.
That’s come our arts to cheer,
Let me my loyal powers ewince
A welcomin of you ere.
I think, in some respex,
Egstremely shootable might be found
For honest Pleaseman X.