Hymn To King Louis.[69]

Behold great Louis, Bavaria’s king, Few monarchs are half so splendid; In him a king the Bavarians revere, From an ancient line descended.

He’s fond of art: fair women to get For their portraits to sit, is his passion: In this painted seraglio takes he his walks, In eunuch-artistic fashion.

A marble place of skulls hath he Near Ratisbon constructed, And all the arrangements for every head In his own royal person conducted.

Walhalla-companions! A masterpiece, Where the merit of every man is Set forth, with his character and his acts, From Teut to Schinderhannes.

But Luther, the blockhead, amongst them all, Has no place in this proud mausoleum; The whale ’mongst the fishes is often left out In a natural hist’ry museum.

King Louis is also a poet renown’d; Whenever sings or plays he, Apollo falls down at his feet and exclaims: “O stop, or you’ll drive me quite crazy!”

King Louis is also a hero renown’d, Like his child, his little son, Otho, Who was chosen to sit on the throne of Greece (He disgraced it long ago, tho’).

When Louis dies, he’ll canonised be At Rome by the holy Father; A cat with ruffles a face like his With its Glory will look like rather.

As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos Are converted to Christianity, They’ll make St. Louis their guardian saint, In proof of their perfect sanity.

TWO KNIGHTS.

Crapulinski and Waschlapski, Poles in Poland born and bred, Fought for their dear country’s freedom ’Gainst the Russian tyrant dread.

Boldly did they fight, and lastly Found at Paris a retreat; Living, just as much as dying For one’s fatherland, is sweet.

Like Achilles and Patroclus, David and his Jonathan, Loved the pair of Poles each other, Kiss’d, and said: “Kochan! Kochan!”

Neither e’er betray’d the other, Both were faithful friends and true, Notwithstanding that they Poles were, Born and bred in Poland too.

They the same apartment dwelt in, In the selfsame bed slept they, And in noble emulation Scratch’d themselves by night and day.

In the selfsame beershop dined they, And as neither was content That the other paid his reckoning, Neither ever paid a cent.

’Twas the selfsame washerwoman Did the washing for the pair; Humming, for their linen came she Every month to wash and air.

Yes, they really had their linen, Each one had two shirts, well-worn, Notwithstanding that they Poles were, Poles in Poland bred and born.

They to-day sit near the chimney, Where the flames a bright glow cast; Out of doors are night, a snowstorm, And the coaches driving past.

They a mighty bowl of punch have Drain’d already and devour’d; (Understand me, ’twas unsugar’d, And unwater’d and unsour’d.)

Sorrow o’er their souls is creeping, Tears their furrow’d faces streak: With a voice of deep emotion Thus doth Crapulinski speak;

“Would that I had here in Paris “My dear bearskin, my old cotton “Dressing-gown, my catskin-nightcap, “In my fatherland forgotten!”

Thus to him replied Waschlapski: “O thou art a driv’ller true; “Of thy home thou’rt over thinking, “Catskin-nightcap, bearskin too.

“Poland has not yet quite perish’d, “Still our wives to sons give birth, “And our girls will do so likewise, “And produce us men of worth,

“Heroes, like great Sobieski, “Like Schelmufski and Uminski, “Eskrokewitsch, Schubiakski, “And the mighty Eselinski.”