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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538710" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lines On A Late Hospicious Ewent, By A Gebtleman Of The Footguards (Blue)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I paced upon my beat<br>With steady step and slow,<br>All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street:<br>Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">While marching huppandownd<br>Upon that fair May morn,<br>Beold the booming cannings sound,<br>A royal child is born!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Ministers of State<br>Then presnly I sor,<br>They gallops to the Pallis gate,<br>In carridges and for.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With anxious looks intent,<br>Before the gate they stop,<br>There comes the good Lord President,<br>And there the Archbishopp.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lord John he next elights;<br>And who comes here in haste?<br>'Tis the ero of one underd fights,<br>The caudle for to taste.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,<br>Towards them steps with joy;<br>Says the brave old Duke, 'Come tell to us,<br>Is it a gal or a boy?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,<br>'Your Grace, it is A PRINCE.'<br>And at that nuss's bold rebuke,<br>He did both laugh and wince.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He vews with pleasant look<br>This pooty flower of May,<br>Then, says the wenarable Duke,<br>'Egad, it's my buthday.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By memory backwards borne,<br>Peraps his thoughts did stray<br>To that old place where he was born,<br>Upon the first of May.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps he did recal<br>The ancient towers of Trim;<br>And County Meath and Dangan Hall<br>They did rewisit him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I phansy of him so<br>His good old thoughts employin';<br>Fourscore years and one ago<br>Beside the flowin' Boyne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His father praps he sees,<br>Most Musicle of Lords,<br>A playing maddrigles and glees<br>Upon the Arpsicords.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jest phansy this old Ero<br>Upon his mother's knee!<br>Did ever lady in this land<br>Ave greater sons than she?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I shoudn be surprize<br>While this was in his mind,<br>If a drop there twinkled in his eyes<br>Of unfamiliar brind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To Hapsly Ouse next day<br>Drives up a Broosh and for,<br>A gracious prince sits in that Shay<br>I mention him with Hor!)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They ring upon the bell,<br>The Porter shows his Ed,<br>(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,<br>And vears a Veskit red).</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To see that carriage come,<br>The people round it press:<br>'And is the galliant Duke at ome?'<br>'Your Royal Ighness, yes.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He stepps from out the Broosh<br>And in the gate is gone;<br>And X, although the people push,<br>Says wary kind, 'Move hon.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Royal Prince unto<br>The galliant Duke did say,<br>'Dear duke, my little son and you<br>Was born the self same day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The Lady of the land,<br>My wife and Sovring dear,<br>It is by her horgust command<br>I wait upon you here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'That lady is as well<br>As can expected be;<br>And to your Grace she bid me tell<br>This gracious message free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'That offspring of our race,<br>Whom yesterday you see,<br>To show our honor for your Grace,<br>Prince Arthur he shall be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'That name it rhymes to fame;<br>All Europe knows the sound:<br>And I couldn't find a better name<br>If you'd give me twenty pound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'King Arthur had his knights<br>That girt his table round,<br>But you have won a hundred fights,<br>Will match 'em I'll be bound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'You fought with Bonypart,<br>And likewise Tippoo Saib;<br>I name you then with all my heart<br>The Godsire of this babe.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That Prince his leave was took,<br>His hinterview was done.<br>So let us give the good old Duke<br>Good luck of his god-son.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And wish him years of joy<br>In this our time of Schism,<br>And hope he'll hear the royal boy<br>His little catechism.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And my pooty little Prince<br>That's come our arts to cheer,<br>Let me my loyal powers ewince<br>A welcomin of you ere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,<br>I think, in some respex,<br>Egstremely shootable might be found<br>For honest Pleaseman X.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Makepeace+Thackeray">William Makepeace Thackeray</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538710" data-title="Lines On A Late Hospicious Ewent, By A Gebtleman Of The Footguards (Blue) de William Makepeace Thackeray" data-description="I paced upon my beat
With steady step and slow,
All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street:
Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State
Then pr..."></div>
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