_)
NOVEMBER 9, 1891.
_Mr. Punch (for self and everybody) loquitur_:--
My Prince, 'tis for our coming King
We all lift glass in hand;
For him that loud hurrahs do ring
To-day all round the land,
My Prince,
All round a loyal land!
Let sycophantish slave kotoo;
You love not such display;
Let courtiers cringe and creatures "boo."
'Tis not our English way,
My Prince,
'Tis not our English way.
As FLORA to Prince CHARLIE bent
It is no shame to bow;
And you're a man to be content
With man's respect, I trow,
My Prince,
With man's respect, I trow.
For Fifty Years we've known you, Sir,
And liked you. Love is free!
That's why the land is all astir,
To hail your Jubilee,
My Prince,
To hail your Jubilee.
In Forty-Six _Punch_ pictured you,
"A Sailor every inch,"[A]
Toasting "Mamma!" in a stiff brew
Without a sign of flinch,
My Prince,
Without one sign of flinch.
In Seventy-One he stood beside
Your door in sad "Suspense."[B]
We saw the turn in that dark tide
With thankfulness intense,
My Prince,
With gratitude intense.
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