Classic Poem

AFTER BÉRANGER

There was a King in Brentford, — of whom no legends tell,
But who, without his glory, — could eat and sleep right well
His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crown of state,
He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honor, — a dog ran at his heels.
Sometimes to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this monarch good,
And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits — with which this King was cursed,
Except (and where's the harm on't?) — a somewhat lively thirst;
But people must pay taxes, — and Kings must have their sport;
So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him, — with manners soft and bland;
With reason good, they named him, — the father of his land.
Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in gallant show;
Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor, — no useless conquest made,
But by the laws of pleasure, — his peaceful realm he swayed.
And in the years he reigned, — through all this country wide,
There was no cause for weeping, — save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford, — do still their King deplore,
His portrait yet is swinging, — beside an alehouse door.
And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest phiz,
And envy times departed, — that knew a reign like his.