“Great Britain’s navy scours the sea,
  And everywhere her ships they be,
  She’ll recognize our rank, perhaps,
  When she discovers we’re Royal Chaps.

  “If to her skirts you want to cling,
  It’s quite sufficient that you’re a king: 
  She does not push inquiry far
  To learn what sort of king you are.”

  A ship of several thousand tons,
  And mounting seventy-something guns,
  Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,
  Discovering kings and countries new.

  The brave Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip,
  Commanding that superior ship,
  Perceived one day, his glasses through,
  The kings that came from Chickeraboo.

  “Dear eyes!” said Admiral Pip, “I see
  Three flourishing islands on our lee. 
  And, bless me! most extror’nary thing! 
  On every island stands a king!

  “Come, lower the Admiral’s gig,” he cried,
  “And over the dancing waves I’ll glide;
  That low obeisance I may do
  To those three kings of Chickeraboo!”

  The admiral pulled to the islands three;
  The kings saluted him gracious_lee_. 
  The admiral, pleased at his welcome warm,
  Pulled out a printed Alliance form.

  “Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray—­
  I come in a friendly kind of way—­
  I come, if you please, with the best intents,
  And Queen Victoria’s compliments.”

  The kings were pleased as they well could be;
  The most retiring of all the three,
  In a “cellar-flap” to his joy gave vent
  With a banjo-bones accompaniment.

  The great Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip
  Embarked on board his jolly big ship,
  Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,
  And off he sailed to his native shore.

  Admiral Pip directly went
  To the Lord at the head of the Government,
  Who made him, by a stroke of a quill,
  Baron de Pippe, of Pippetonneville.

  The College of Heralds permission yield
  That he should quarter upon his shield
  Three islands, vert, on a field of blue,
  With the pregnant motto “Chickeraboo.”

  Ambassadors, yes, and attaches, too,
  Are going to sail for Chickeraboo,
  And, see, on the good ship’s crowded deck,
  A bishop, who’s going out there on spec.

  And let us all hope that blissful things
  May come of alliance with darkey kings. 
  Oh, may we never, whatever we do,
  Declare a war with Chickeraboo!

[Illustration]

THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO.

  From east and south the holy clan
  Of bishops gathered, to a man;
  To synod, called Pan-Anglican;
    In flocking crowds they came. 
  Among them was a Bishop, who
  Had lately been appointed to
  The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,
    And Peter was his name.

  His people—­twenty-three in sum—­
  They played the eloquent tum-tum
  And lived on scalps served up in rum—­
    The only sauce they knew,
  When, first good Bishop Peter came
  (For Peter was that Bishop’s name),
  To humor them, he did the same
    As they of Rum-ti-Foo.