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The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard

With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold

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ODE TO THE LITTLE LORD MAYOR.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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247

ODE TO THE LITTLE LORD MAYOR.

Born November 28.

The court of Common Councilmen have appointed a committee to ascertain the most advisable course of testifying their satisfaction at the birth of a son to the Lord Mayor.

Oh, infant heir to the new Lord Mayor
Thou small edition of Gog,
Did ever a son in dark London
So shine through November's fog?
So rare thy fate, that the City's state
No parallel shows to thee;
But not more rare than bright and fair—
To be born in the Mayoralty!
Now those who can, and those who can't,
Thy praises strive to sing—
In speech or chorus, chime or chant,
To the new-born Mayorling.
Clerks in the banks deal out with thanks
Their notes—of congratulation;
And filled with joys are the grateful boys
Who are out of situation.

248

But every Alderman past the chair
With envy looks on you;
And piously prays for another heir,
And another election too.
And those not passed with their babes are vexed,
As they count the family sum;
And would fain postpone the birth of the next,
For four or five years to come.
And every Deputy, checking his joy,
And changing his gladsome tune,
Goes home and chides his undutiful boy
For being born so soon.
Yet Mayors that have been, are to be,
And Deputies afar,
And Common Councilmen, all agree
To hail thee as a star!
While all aspire, lo, Mr. Wire
Electrifies the City,
By moving the court to appoint a sort
Of Wir-drawn committee.
All the Aldermen,’ ‘all the Deps.,’
And ‘a member from each ward,’
Are chosen instanter for taking steps
To honour their little Lord.

249

And Alderman Scholey deigns to rehearse
(Lest you in a cot be laid ill),
The custom, and thinks that the City's purse
Can afford you a ‘silver cradle.’
Of solid silver! No plated ware,
To make a shabby show;
Real cloth of gold shall above thee glare,
And silver tissue below.
The sword, the mace, shall be thy toys;
And all thy infant charms
Shall be—oh, greatest of little boys!—
Wrapped in the City's arms.
And at Guildhall a splendid ball
Shall be given when the days are mild;
Where all shall fly to hear you cry,
Just like a common child.
At last, when, after such a spring,
You fill the civic chair,
London shall choose her Mayorling
Perpetual Lord Mayor!
1835.