The Pimlico Pavilion

- 1811-1863
  Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius,
    Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow,
  Descind from your station and make observation
    Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

  This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres,
    (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;)
  And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure,
    Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.

  O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is
    Walking magnanimous all of a row,
  Forgetful what state is among the pataties
    And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.

  There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus,
    Of "God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro;
  And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches,
    Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.

  There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses
    That round in the gardens resplindently grow,
  Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins,
    Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.

  You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther,
    Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow,
  A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows
    Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.

  And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid
    You see on its summit a wondtherful show—
  A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding,
    The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.

  Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers,
    (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,)
  With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion,
    Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.

  There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on,
    And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow;
  I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead
    Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.

  O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O;
    And while round the chamber astonished I go,
  I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces
    Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.

  Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,)
    And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below;
  While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers,
    Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.

  And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it;
    O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow:
  But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-ture—
    He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.

  There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings;
    There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show;
  And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is,
    That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.

  In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got,
    Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio;
  And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in,
    And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico.

  There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar,
    Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo;
  Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't;)
    And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico.

  That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce,
    But some I won't mintion is rather so so;
  For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee,
    O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico?

  O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian,
    Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero;
  So heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty,
    And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico.

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.