“Great Britain’s navy scours
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
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!
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
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.