The Crystal Palace

- 1811-1863
    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.


More by William Makepeace Thackeray

The Mahogany Tree

Christmas is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Shelter'd about
The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing, like them,
Perch'd round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit—
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short—
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we 'll be!
Drink every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree.

Drain we the cup.—
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.

The Speculators

  The night was stormy and dark,
  The town was shut up in sleep:
  Only those were abroad who were out on a lark,
  Or those who'd no beds to keep.

  I pass'd through the lonely street,
  The wind did sing and blow;
  I could hear the policeman's feet
  Clapping to and fro.

  There stood a potato-man
  In the midst of all the wet;
  He stood with his 'tato-can
  In the lonely Hay-market.

  Two gents of dismal mien,
  And dank and greasy rags,
  Came out of a shop for gin,
  Swaggering over the flags:

  Swaggering over the stones,
  These shabby bucks did walk;
  And I went and followed those seedy ones,
  And listened to their talk.

  Was I sober or awake?
  Could I believe my ears?
  Those dismal beggars spake
  Of nothing but railroad shares.

  I wondered more and more:
  Says one—"Good friend of mine,
  How many shares have you wrote for,
  In the Diddlesex Junction line?"

  "I wrote for twenty," says Jim,
  "But they wouldn't give me one;"
  His comrade straight rebuked him
  For the folly he had done:

  "O Jim, you are unawares
  Of the ways of this bad town;
  I always write for five hundred shares,
  And THEN they put me down."

  "And yet you got no shares,"
  Says Jim, "for all your boast;"
  "I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where
  Was the penny to pay the post?"

  "I lost, for I couldn't pay
  That first instalment up;
  But here's 'taters smoking hot—I say,
  Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

  And at this simple feast
  The while they did regale,
  I drew each ragged capitalist
  Down on my left thumbnail.

  Their talk did me perplex,
  All night I tumbled and tost,
  And thought of railroad specs,
  And how money was won and lost.

  "Bless railroads everywhere,"
  I said, "and the world's advance;
  Bless every railroad share
  In Italy, Ireland, France;
  For never a beggar need now despair,
  And every rogue has a chance."

The Battle of Limerick

    Ye Genii of the nation,
    Who look with veneration.
  And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore;
    Ye sons of General Jackson,
    Who thrample on the Saxon,
  Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore,

    When William, Duke of Schumbug,
    A tyrant and a humbug,
  With cannon and with thunder on our city bore,
    Our fortitude and valiance
    Insthructed his battalions
  To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.

    Since that capitulation,
    No city in this nation
  So grand a reputation could boast before,
    As Limerick prodigious,
    That stands with quays and bridges,
  And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.

    A chief of ancient line,
    'Tis William Smith O'Brine
  Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more:
    O the Saxons can't endure
    To see him on the flure,
  And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!

    This valliant son of Mars
    Had been to visit Par's,
  That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor;
    And to welcome his returrn
    From pilgrimages furren,
  We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.

    Then we summoned to our board
    Young Meagher of the sword:
  'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore;
    And Mitchil of Belfast
    We bade to our repast,
  To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.

    Convaniently to hould
    These patriots so bould,
  We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store;
    And with ornamints and banners
    (As becomes gintale good manners)
  We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.

    'Twould binifit your sowls,
    To see the butthered rowls,
  The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore,
    And the muffins and the crumpets,
    And the band of hearts and thrumpets,
  To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.

    Sure the Imperor of Bohay
    Would be proud to dthrink the tay
  That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour;
    And, since the days of Strongbow,
    There never was such Congo—
  Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it—by Shannon shore.

    But Clarndon and Corry
    Connellan beheld this sworry
  With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core;
    And they hired a gang of ruffins
    To interrupt the muffins,
  And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.

    When full of tay and cake,
    O'Brine began to spake;
  But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar
    Of a ragamuffin rout
    Began to yell and shout,
  And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.

    As Smith O'Brine harangued,
    They batthered and they banged:
  Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore;
    They smashed the lovely windies
    (Hung with muslin from the Indies),
  Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.

    With throwing of brickbats,
    Drowned puppies and dead rats,
  These ruffin democrats themselves did lower;
    Tin kettles, rotten eggs,
    Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,
  They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.

    O the girls began to scrame
    And upset the milk and crame;
  And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore:
    And Mitchil of Belfast,
    'Twas he that looked aghast,
  When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.

    O the lovely tay was spilt
    On that day of Ireland's guilt;
  Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt!  Boys, where's the back door?
    'Tis a national disgrace:
    Let me go and veil me face;"
  And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.

    "Cut down the bloody horde!"
    Says Meagher of the sword,
  "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;"
    But the best use Tommy made
    Of his famous battle blade
  Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.

    Immortal Smith O'Brine
    Was raging like a line;
  'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar;
    In his glory he arose,
    And he rushed upon his foes,
  But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.

    Then the Futt and the Dthragoons
    In squadthrons and platoons,
  With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;
    And they bate the rattatoo,
    But the Peelers came in view,
  And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.