Queen’s Wants — At Child Birth; or, What a Bother — In the Palace
London, November 21st, 1840.
Come all good people list to me,
I will tell you of a jovial spree,
News from London has come down,
That a young princess has come to town.
CHORUS.
What a bother in the palace,
In the month of November,
Such a bother in the palace
You never did see.
Now all those things, as I heard say,
The Queen did want upon that day,
Night-caps, gowns, frocks, and frills,
And old John Bull must pay the bills.
I must get all things I can,
A child’s chair and a small brown pan,
Nine hundred and forty gallons of rum,
And a sponge to wash her little bum.
A great deal of money I want,
You must put it down to my account,
Tops and bottoms, and sugar plums,
And a ring to rub her little gums.
I want a copper to make pap in,
And fifty-three dozen of napkins,
And when she’s christened, oh, dear me!
Wont we have a jovial spree.
I cannot help thinking, oh, what fuss
There was in calling in the nurse,
Run for a napkin, open the door,
The child has dirtied on the floor.
At three months old she’ll learn to walk,
Italian, Dutch, and Spanish, talk,
She’ll jump Jim Crow and catch the flies,
We’ll whip her bottom if she cries.
When Albert and I goes out to ride,
We’ll have our darling by our side,
And on her head we’ll place a crown,
I’ll beat her well if she wets my gown.
At the christening we’ll have such joys,
Sour crout, palonies, and saveloys,
There’ll be all my friends from Germany,
Coburghs and all the bugs to tea.
When she was born there was a pull,
On the purse of old John Bull,
With fair promises, I will be bound,
They’ll coax him out of ten thousand pounds.
There was such work I do suppose,
For to put on the baby’s clothes,
Oh, nurse, look here, how very silly,
You’ve run a pin in the little girl’s belly.
God bless the Queen, we wish her joy,
And may the next one be a boy,
And if they both should crave for more
Let’s hope they will have half-a-score.
May — The Queen — Live for Ever
Whilst the bright star of glory in Liberty’s rays,
Over the face of Great Britain resplendently shines,
Where’s the power upon earth can Victoria dismay,
Whilst her true British Subjects together combine.
Huzza, may the Queen live for ever, &c.,
Shall we ever see her like, no never;
Here’s her health in a bumper of wine.
Let the voice of her people re-echo the strain,
And her fame thro’ the trumpet extend thro’ the World,
May the sun over her throne ever shed its bright rays,
While her Banners of Justice and Mercy’s unfurl’d.
We’ll sing, too, in praise of Old England our Isle,
Who hath succour’d all Nations imploring her aid,
May that Omniscient Eye look down with a smile,
On our Queen and all who at her Mercy are laid.
John Harkness, Printer, Preston.