The Marquis of Carabas

A SONG WITH A STOLEN BURDEN

Off with your hat! along the street

— His Lordship's carriage rolls;

Respect to greatness — when it shines

— To cheer our darkened souls.

Get off the step, you ragged boys!

— Policeman, where's your staff?

This is a sight to check with awe

— The most irreverent laugh.

— Chapeau bas!

— Chapeau bas!

Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Stand further back! we'll see him well;

— Wait till they lift him out:

It takes some time; his Lordship's old,

— And suffers from the gout.

Now look! he owns a castled park

— For every finger thin;

He has more sterling pounds a day

— Than wrinkles in his skin.

The founder of his race was son

— To a king's cousin, rich;

(The mother was an oyster wench —

— She perished in a ditch).

His patriot worth embalmed has been

— In poets' loud applause:

He made twelve thousand pounds a year

— By aiding France's cause.

The second marquis, of the stole

— Was groom to the second James;

He all but caught that recreant king

— When flying o'er the Thames.

Devotion rare! by Orange Will

— With a Scotch county paid;

He gained one more — in Ireland — when

— Charles Edward he betrayed.

He lived to see his son grow up

— A general famed and bold,

Who fought his country's fights — and one,

— For half a million, sold.

His son (alas! the house's shame)

— Frittered the name away:

Diced, wenched and drank — at last got shot,

— Through cheating in his play!

Now, see, where, focused on one head,

— The race's glories shine:

The head gets narrow at the top,

— But mark the jaw — how fine!

Don't call it satyr-like; you'd wound

— Some scores, whose honest pates

The self-same type present, upon

— The Carabas estates!

Look at his skin — at four-score years

— How fresh it gleams and fair:

He never tasted ill-dressed food,

— Or breathed in tainted air.

The noble blood glows through his veins

— Still, with a healthful pink;

His brow scarce wrinkled! — Brows keep so

— That have not got to think.

His hand's ungloved! — it shakes, 'tis true,

— But mark its tiny size,

(High birth's true sign) and shape, as on

— The lackey's arm it lies.

That hand ne'er penned a useful line,

— Ne'er worked a deed of fame,

Save slaying one, whose sister he —

— Its owner — brought to shame.

They've got him in — he's gone to vote

— Your rights and mine away;

Perchance our lives, should men be scarce,

— To fight his cause for pay.

We are his slaves! he owns our lands,

— Our woods, our seas, and skies;

He'd have us shot like vicious dogs,

— Should we in murmuring rise!

— Chapeau bas!

— Chapeau bas!

Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

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