Volume 25 — PRINCE PUNCH TO PRINCE ALBERT.

Illustrious and excellent brother, Don't consider me rude or unkind, If, as from one Prince to another, I give you a bit of my mind— And I do so with all the more roundness, As your conduct amongst us has shown A propriety, judgment, and soundness Of taste, not surpassed by my own.

You've respected John Bull's little oddities, Never trod on the old fellow's corns; Chose his pictures and statue—commodities Wherein his own blunders he mourns. And if you're a leetle more German In these than I'd have you—what is't Beyond what a critic may term an Educational bias or twist?

On the summer-house walls, in your garden, Of R.A.'s., fresco-painters you've made; A demand which some of them won't pardon Since good drawing's required for the trade. You've roused to new life the Society Of Arts, which had grown mighty flat; And the Army to you, with propriety, Attributes the famed Albert hat.

When the zeal for the Great Exhibition Down to zero seemed likely to drop, Mayors Provincial, at your requisition, Of a sudden showed souls above shop. Inspired up they went, like sky-rockets, At the call of a Patriot Prince— Nay, more, put their hands in their pockets To a tune ne'er before known—nor since.

Foundation stones, past calculation, Workmanlike, you have laid, true and square And a curiously dinner-rid nation Has still found you a saint in the chair. Goodness knows what ineffable dinners, What drinks deleterious you've borne, What prosing from long-winded sinners You've endured with a patience unworn!

You have never pressed forward unbidden; When called on you've never shown shame Not paraded, nor prudishly hidden Your person, your purse, or your name; You've lent no man occasion to call you Intruder, intriguer, or tool; Even I've not had often to haul you O'er the coals, or to take you to school.

All this, my dear Prince, gives me boldness— Which, au reste, our positions allow— For a hint (which you'll not charge to coldness, After all I have written just now): Which is to put down certain flunkies, Who by flatt'ry your favour would earn, Pelting praise at your head, as at monkeys Tars throw stones—to get nuts in return.

My Lord Mayor may beplaster his liveries With velvet and gingerbread gold; Though all, what he'd perhaps call "diskiveries," Are bursting from every fold: He may perch up a Justice from Astley's Atop of a property car, Not less fit for the day, or less ghastly's Her rouge, than frauds corporate are.

He may summon his friends to swill turtle, And gulp ven'son, like pigs in a stye;— Line the Mansion House staircase with myrtle And laurel—the Sphynx can tell why;— He may bow to the Bench of Exchequer, Have Ministers sit at his board;— Civic barges no farther from wreck are, Gog and Magog no less shall be floored.

The hands that prepare your ovation, My dear Prince, ought at least to be clean; Not the hands of a doomed Corporation, Fouled with all that is venal and mean: There's the smut of the poor man's coals there, Whereof tithe they've unrighteously taken; There's the flour of the poor man's rolls there, And the grease of the poor man's bacon.

Then silence your civic applauders, Lest better men cease from applause He who tribute accepts of marauders, Is held to be pledged to their cause. Let no Corporate magnates of London An honour presume to award: Their own needs, till ill-doings be undone, Little honour to spare can afford!