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dently of a royal nature, from the profusion of goldlace, frogs, etc. that lie about — They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of “ Derry Down.”
My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your
knees, For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease, While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers) The Shop-board's delight! the Mæcenas of Tailors !
Derry down, down, down derry down.
Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note, While His short cut to fame is — the cut of his
coat; Philip's Son thought the World was too small for
his Soul, But our Regent's finds room in a lac'd button-hole.
Derry down, etc.
Look through all Europe's Kings — those, at least,
who go loose — Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose. So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town!
Derry down, etc.
During the “ Derry down" of this last verse, a Messenger from the Secretary of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious
fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions, and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development — the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm, which he is made to betray, is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation, too, which he finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M‘Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced, and skilfully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition.
Honour'd Colonel — my Wife, who's the Queen of
all slatterns, Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns. She sent the wrong Measures too — shamefully
wrongThey're the same us’d for poor Mr. Lambert, when
young; But, bless you! they wouldn't go half round the
Regent — So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.
This fully explains the whole mystery — the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual, to the satisfaction of all parties.
SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.
THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.
“It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it.”— LORD CASTLEREAGu's Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment, April 14, 1812.
Last night I toss'd and turn’d in bed,
Methought the Prince, in whisker'd state,