LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. *

I paced upon my beat

With steady step and slow,

All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street:

Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd

Upon that fair May morn,

Beold the booming cannings sound,

A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State

Then presnly I sor,

They gallops to the Pallis gate,

In carridges and for.

With anxious looks intent,

Before the gate they stop,

There comes the good Lord President,

And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights;

And who comes here in haste?

‘ Tis the ero of one underd fights,

The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,

Towards them steps with joy;

Says the brave old Duke, “Come tell to us,

Is it a gal or a boy?”

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,

“Your Grace, it is A PRINCE.”

And at that nuss's bold rebuke,

He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look

This pooty flower of May,

Then, says the wenarable Duke,

“Egad, it's my buthday.”

By memory backwards borne,

Peraps his thoughts did stray

To that old place where he was born,

Upon the first of May.

Perhaps he did recal

The ancient towers of Trim;

And County Meath and Dangan Hall

They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so

His good old thoughts employin’;

Fourscore years and one ago

Beside the flowin’ Boyne.

His father praps he sees,

Most Musicle of Lords,

A playing maddrigles and glees

Upon the Arpsicords.

Jest phansy this old Ero

Upon his mother's knee!

Did ever lady in this land

Ave greater sons than she?

And I shoudn be surprize

While this was in his mind,

If a drop there twinkled in his eyes

Of unfamiliar brind.

To Hapsly Ouse next day

Drives up a Broosh and for,

A gracious prince sits in that Shay

( I mention him with Hor! )

They ring upon the bell,

The Porter shows his Ed,

( He fought at Vaterloo as vell,

And vears a Veskit red ).

To see that carriage come,

The people round it press:

“And is the galliant Duke at ome?”

“Your Royal Ighness, yes.”

He stepps from out the Broosh

And in the gate is gone;

And X, although the people push,

Says wary kind, “Move hon.”

The Royal Prince unto

The galliant Duke did say,

“Dear duke, my little son and you

Was born the self same day.

“The Lady of the land,

My wife and Sovring dear,

It is by her horgust command

I wait upon you here.

“That lady is as well

As can expected be;

And to your Grace she bid me tell

This gracious message free.

“That offspring of our race,

Whom yesterday you see,

To show our honor for your Grace,

Prince Arthur he shall be.

“That name it rhymes to fame;

All Europe knows the sound:

And I could n't find a better name

If you'd give me twenty pound.

“King Arthur had his knights

That girt his table round,

But you have won a hundred fights,

Will match‘ em I'll be bound.

“You fought with Bonypart,

And likewise Tippoo Saib;

I name you then with all my heart

The Godsire of this babe.”

That Prince his leave was took,

His hinterview was done.

So let us give the good old Duke

Good luck of his god-son.

And wish him years of joy

In this our time of Schism,

And hope he'll hear the royal boy

His little catechism.

And my pooty little Prince

That's come our arts to cheer,

Let me my loyal powers ewince

A welcomin of you ere.

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,

I think, in some respex,

Egstremely shootable might be found

For honest Pleaseman X.