Henry VIII

With Stevenson we must agree,

Who found the world so full of things,

That all should be, or so said he,

As happy as a host of Kings;

Yet few so fortunate as not

To envy Bluff King Henry's lot.

A polished monarch, through and through,

Tho’ somewhat lacking in religion,

Who joined a courtly manner to

The figure of a pouter pigeon;

And was, at time of feast or revel

A... well... a perfect little devil!

But tho’ his vices, I'm afraid,

Are hard for modern minds to swallow,

Two lofty virtues he displayed,

Which we should do our best to follow:—

A passion for domestic life,

A cult for what is called The Wife.

He sought his spouses, North and South.

Six times ( to make a misquotation )

He managed, at the Canon's mouth,

To win a bubble reputation;

And ev'ry time, from last to first,

His matrimonial bubble burst!

Six times, with wide, self-conscious smile

And well-blacked, button boots, he entered

The Abbey's bust-congested aisle,

With ev'ry eye upon him centred;

Six times he heard, and not alone,

The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.

Six sep'rate times ( or three times twice ),

In order to complete the marriage,

‘ Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,

He sought the shelter of his carriage;

Six times the bride, beneath her veil,

Looked “beautiful, but somewhat pale.”

Within the limits of one reign,

Six females of undaunted bearing,

Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,

Enjoyed the privilege of sharing

A conjugal career so chequer'd

It almost constitutes a record!

Yet sometimes it occurs to me

That Henry missed his true vocation;

A husband by profession he,

A widower by occupation;

And, honestly, it seems a pity

He did n't live in Salt Lake City.

For there he could have put in force

His plural marriage views, unbaffled;

Nor had recourse to dull divorce,

Nor sought the service of the scaffold;

Nor looked for peace, nor found release,

In any partner's predecease.

Had Henry been alive to-day,

He might have hired a timely motor,

And sent each wife in turn to stay

Within the confines of Dakota;

That State whose rigid marriage-law,

Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.

But Henry's simple days are done,

And, in the present generation,

A wife is seldom woo'd and won

By prospects of decapitation.

For nowadays when Woman weds,

It is the Men who lose their heads!