A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL,
IN Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness
Had cut-as near as can be reckoned- Some say his first tooth, some his second. Chronologers and verses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary. We only know the important truth- His Majesty had cut a tooth.
And much his subjects were enchanted, As well all Lamas' subjects may be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby
As he was there by Right Divine (What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine,
And every body's goods and rhino)— Of course his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succorsNothing was seen but pension'd nurses,
And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.
Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye gods, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no-if Thibet had M.P.s, They were far better bred than these; Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition.
But short this calm; for, just when he Had reach'd the alarming age of three, When royal natures—and, no doubt Those of all noble beasts-break out, The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh- Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry,
And trod on the old General's toes- Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (God bless him!) That his chief Nurse-though with the aid Of an Archbishop—was afraid,
When in these moods, to comb or dress him; And even the persons most inclined
For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did not) an odious pickle.
At length, some patriot lords-a breed Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,
For folks like Pidcock to exhibit- Some patriot lords, seeing the length
To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery;
In which, protesting that they yielded, To none, that ever went before 'em-
In loyalty to him who wielded
The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em— That, as for treason, 't was a thing
That made them almost sick to think ofThat they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,
When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!— But still-though much admiring kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings)- They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control
Of birch before their ruler's eyes; But that, of late, such pranks and tricks, And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all, but men with bishoprics,
Allow'd, even in a King, were wrongWherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;— In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping- They ventured humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!
When this was read-no Congreve rocket Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss-
What, whip a Lama!-suffer birch To touch his sacred
Deistical-assailing thus
The fundamentals of the Church! No-no-such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven-and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."
The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state
Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, though late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met-
The little Lama call'd before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get, And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.
And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal Martyrdom (Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word 's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
'Tis said her little Lamas since
Have all behaved themselves much better.
AND is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision!
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.
If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As-"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-
"The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast-(what! higher still?)— And-(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)— Will soon be down to sixty-seven."
Go where we may-rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch- And scarce a pin's head difference which- Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for traveling lasts, If Cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, Will leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands- If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees- If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the Blacks of Carolina-
Or, flying to the eastward, see Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China.
HERE lies Factotum Ned at last : Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd In which he had n't some small share.
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