Part 115 (1/2)

The towers and fanes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, Saint Payther's, Room.

And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant sh.o.r.es, Her Injians and Canajians, And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His n.o.ble Honour Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pa.s.s, And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones, Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-G.o.ds with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, ”G.o.d save the Queen,” by turrns.

There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym injynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows, And ploughs like toys For little boys, And illigant wheelbarrows.

For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em: There's droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's cabs on stands And shandthrydanns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And jaunting cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pa.s.s From gla.s.s to gla.s.s, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan From far j.a.pan, A sabre from Damasco: There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Behay; Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And gingerbread and jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins fill'd with roses; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints, And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's las.h.i.+ns more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber!

Ah, Judy thru!

With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it!

And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it!

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition.

_W. M. Thackeray._

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN