With ganial foire
    Thransfuse me loyre,
  Ye sacred nympths of Pindus,
    The whoile I sing
    That wondthrous thing,
  The Palace made o' windows!

    Say, Paxton, truth,
    Thou wondthrous youth,
  What sthroke of art celistial,
    What power was lint
    You to invint
  This combineetion cristial.

    O would before
    That Thomas Moore,
  Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,
    Thim aigles sthrong
    Of godlike song,
  Cast oi on that cast oiron!

    And saw thim walls,
    And glittering halls,
  Thim rising slendther columns,
    Which I poor pote,
    Could not denote,
  No, not in twinty vollums.

    My Muse's words
    Is like the bird's
  That roosts beneath the panes there;
    Her wing she spoils
    'Gainst them bright toiles,
  And cracks her silly brains there.

    This Palace tall,
    This Cristial Hall,
  Which Imperors might covet,
    Stands in High Park
    Like Noah's Ark,
  A rainbow bint above it.

    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 shores,
  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 wonthrous place
  (His Noble Honor Misther
    H. Cole it was
    That gave the pass,
  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-gods with urrns:
    There's organs three,
    To play, d'ye see?
  "God 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 Ingynes,
    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 ilegant 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 Shandthry danns;
  There's Waggons from New York here;
    There's Lapland Sleighs
    Have cross'd the seas,
  And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here.

    Amazed I pass
    From glass to glass,
  Deloighted I survey 'em;
    Fresh wondthers grows
    Before me nose
  In this sublime Musayum!

    Look, here's a fan
    From far Japan,
  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;
    Has sent Bohay;
  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 lashins 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.


This poem is in the public domain.