A New Song on the Birth of the Prince of Wales
Who was born on Tuesday, November 9th, 1841.
John Harkness, Printer, Church Street, Preston.
There’s a pretty fuss and bother both in country and town,
Since we have got a present and an heir unto the crown,
A little Prince of Wales so charming and so sly,
And the ladies shout with wonder, what a pretty little boy.
CHORUS.
So let us be contented and sing with mirth and joy,
Some things must be got ready for the pretty little boy.
He must have a little musket, a trumpet, and a kite,
A little penny rattle and silver sword so bright,
A little cap and feather with scarlet coat so smart,
And a pretty little hobby horse to ride about the park.
Prince Albert he will often take the young Prince on his lap,
And fondle him so loving while he stirs about the pap,
He will pin on his flannel before he takes his nap,
Then dress him out so stylish with his little clouts and cap.
He must have a dandy suit to strut about the town.
John Bull must rake together six or seven thousand pound,
You’d laugh to see his daddy, at night he homeward runs,
With some peppermint or lollipops, sweet cakes and sugar plums.
He will want a little fiddle, and a little German flute,
A little pair of stockings and a pretty pair of boots,
With a handsome pair of spurs and a golden headed cane,
And a stick of barley-sugar as long as Drury Lane.
An old maid ran through the palace, which did the nobs surprise,
Bawling out he’s got his daddy’s mouth his mammy’s nose and eyes
He will be as like his daddy as a frigate’s like a ship,
If he had got mustachoes on his upper lip.
Now to get these little nicities the taxes must be rose,
For the little Prince of Wales wants so many suits of clothes,
So they must tax the frying pan, the windows and the doors,
The bedsteads and the tables, kitchen-pokers and the floors.
Now all you pretty maidens, mind what the story says,
And try to get a son in nine months and eleven days,
That’s what folks call industry, so damsels young and fair,
Be quickly rolling on the straw with a pretty little dear.
J. Harkness, Printer, 121 and 122 Church Street Office, North Road, Preston.
Come all you bold Britons, and list for awhile,
And I will sing you a song that will make you to smile,
A young Prince of Wales is come to town,
The pride of all the nation, and heir to the crown,
On the ninth of November, ’tis true ’pon my life,
All Buckingham Palace was bustle and strife,
The nurses stared at each other with joy,
Bawling, our queen she has got a most beautiful boy.
CHORUS.
The bells they shall ring, and the music shall play,
The ninth of November, remember the day.
Through England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales,
Shout long life to the Queen and the young Prince of Wales.
It was on the ninth, about eleven in the morn,
When the young Prince of Wales in the palace was born,
Little Vic. she was there, as you all may be sure,
Besides doctors, nurses, and gossips—a score,
Says Vic. I declare he is the image of me,
And there’s my dear Albert’s nose to a tee,
One and all declared, when he grew up a man,
He would drub all the foes that infested the land.
Then Albert he stepped in with a face full of glee,
And danced and he dandled his son on his knee,
When all in an instant his countenance fell,
And he cried “don’t I see a most terrible smell!”
“Mine Cot,” says Al., “oh Lord what a mess!
He has completely spoilt my new morning dress,
Be quick go fetch me some napkins or towels,
For my son, the young Prince, is relaxed in his bowels.”
Of friends and relations there came such a crew,
Of Lords, Dukes, and Ladies, and Germans a few,
Each one bringing presents, the young Prince to please,
They all were as brisk as a cart load of fleas;
Lady Melbourn she brought him a neat little lamb,
With lollipops he was by Miss Russel cramm’d,
There were cradles and pap, boots, and rattles complete,
And lots of small chairs with large holes in the seat.
The head nurse Miss Peel, declared with much joy,
She never saw such a sweet little boy.
She’d clap him she said at the head of the police,
That is if his mamma would give him that leave,
Says old Waterloo Nell, it shall be no such thing,
For the Prince he was born to become a great king;
When the child to decide the question let fly,
With a basin of pap knock’d out Betty Peel’s eye.
The young Prince was set at the end of the room,
And instead of a sceptre he shouldered a broom,
His great uncle Ernest swore he could whack,
And he gave him in earnest a most devilish crack,
They all were as merry as grigs I declare,
Each one seem’d determin’d to drive away care,
One and all took a glass and drank with much joy,
Long life to the Prince, he’s a fine little boy.